Reign In Blood
by notmanos
Summary: Logan returns to work for Canadian Intelligence in tracking down a deadly mutant cult with no obvious agenda beyond killing people. But he isn't prepared for what he finds.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: The character of Wolverine is owned by 20th Century Fox and Marvel Comics. No copyright infringement intended. The characters of Angel & Buffy the Vampire Slayer are owned by 20th Century Fox and Mutant Enemy. Bob and his crew are mine - steal them and die!  
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_N.B.: Takes place shortly after "X2", and directly after "Imitation of Life".  
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**Reign In Blood**

Prologue

Mitchell woke up in the back seat of a car he knew was not his own, and wondered how he got there.

Had he been drinking? He sat up, suddenly aware he'd drooled a bit on the tan leather seat, and tried to get his bearings. It was daytime clearly, but slightly overcast, so the light didn't hurt his eyes. He was a little dizzy, and his chest felt tight, but otherwise he felt okay, making him wonder if it was a hangover. Hangovers usually felt a lot worse.

He opened the door and stepped out on the sidewalk, seeing for himself he was in the back of Ford Taurus. Weird. Did he even know anyone who owned a Taurus? He wasn't honestly sure. People continued to walk around him on the sidewalk, barely aware of him, an inconsequential stone in a sea of people. He wanted to ask someone where he was, but everybody went by so fast, as if they were very busy and didn't even see him. More than half of them were talking on cell phones.

This looked like some big American city, but he couldn't quite figure out which one. He saw beautiful women in trendy clothes, lots of blondes, but that didn't really tell him anything. He followed the crowd a short distance, and found that many of them were entering a building with what looked like a giant football made of glass and metal balanced on the top. He went in, and signs helped him realize he was in Los Angeles. This was the Metro Rail, the subway station, and upon seeing it, he realized he was supposed to get on the train , take it to the Vermont/Beverly stop. He had the exact change in his pocket, and he paid it and went deeper into the station, letting the crowd pull him along.

The tightness in his chest was getting worse; it felt like he had an ember deep inside his torso that was starting to flare to life. He still felt lightheaded, and maybe it was now a bit worse. Why couldn't he remember who he was? And why did he have to go to the Vermont/Beverly stop? The more he thought about it, the more his mind seemed to be like a dog chasing its own tail. He had impressions, and a few strangely strong certainties, but nothing else. That didn't seem right, and yet he couldn't say why it was wrong.

His train came into the station in a burst of noise and wind, and as it slowed and came to a stop, he found himself looking at the train car like it should tell him something. But it didn't; it just told him that L.A. trains didn't have as much graffiti as New York ones. Once the other passengers had filed off, the new ones filed on, and he followed.

He found a seat and sat down, the burning in his chest getting worse. Was it acid reflux? He'd heard of that. He searched his pockets for Rolaids or Tums or something, but all he could he could turn up was a piece of paper with some names and time on it. It said "Hotel Eurasia, Al-Maadi, 3:30". Hotel Eurasia? There couldn't possibly be a hotel by that name in L.A. could there?

By the time the train started on his way, he remembered. The hotel was in Rasiva, the unofficial capitol of Asrahar, which was where he was supposed to be. He was Mitchell Soames, a covert operative for the C.I.A., and he had been trying to gather intel on the mutant cult Black Fire. He'd been having no luck at all until he was contacted by an anonymous source who agreed to meet him at the hotel. According to him, he had some proof that Black Fire was planning a bombing in Los Angeles, his hometown. Did he ever go to the hotel? He couldn't remember.

But he knew suddenly he had to get off this train, because he had been set up. He didn't know how, or why, but he knew the bombing was going to occur. Because he was the bomb.

The explosion was a brief, sharp pain, too hot to hurt much, but he was dead before he heard the screams.

1

Why was there the term "whirlwind romance" but not an equivalent for "whirlwind lust"? Or was it basically the same thing, just with a nicer name?

Whatever it was, he and Faith had found it. That first night, they'd hit the town, killed a few vampires and a warty demon or two, and managed to hit a bar for closing time. They had a single drink, and she invited him back to her place for another. Of course he agreed, and in her rickety little elevator, they kissed. He had no idea if she kissed him, or he kissed her - it seemed to be one of those things that just happened. But as soon as they started they couldn't stop, couldn't take their hands off each other, and they had already started ripping each other's clothes off before they were even inside her apartment.

God, she was fun. He'd forgotten how wonderfully life affirming pure lust could be. He and Faith were perfectly matched, as they both seemed to have the same level of stamina, and a chemistry that was electric. They couldn't keep their hands off each other; he felt addicted to the taste of her skin. She took the phone off the hook, and they spent most of that whole first day in bed. It wasn't intentional, but every time either one of them made a move to go anywhere, something would happen - an idle touch, a kiss - and it would set them off again. Time consuming, but he couldn't remember the last time he was left so happily exhausted. He hadn't slept this good - when he was able to sleep - for far too long.

Faith lived on a block in West Hollywood where she was within a stone's throw of about a dozen take out places, so food was no problem. They called out for delivery when they were starving, and it gave them a chance to talk, which they really hadn't done that much. Oh, they discussed how he knew Angel at the bar, but not much more than that. Somehow they'd gotten it backwards, with the sex first and the intimacy later, but honestly, he was good with that.

Faith's apartment was small, but not cramped. It was basically a two room apartment, with the living room also the bedroom, leading into a small, open kitchenette, with a small bathroom off the front room. It had hardwood floors that had seen better decades, although Faith had put down a couple of throw rugs to liven the place up. One was a multicolored rag rug, but her favorite was a fluffy fake fur one the blue of cotton candy. "Looks like a skinned Yrl demon," she said, and he didn't have the desire to ask what the hell that was.

She had movie posters up on the walls, just covering up rips and water stains in the pale striped wallpaper, but they were mostly for foreign films, all the titles and tag lines in French, Korean, Spanish, Japanese, Chinese. Apparently she knew some guys down at the video rental place who just threw out the promo posters after use, and they gave them to her instead, He read the posters for her (hey, she had a Chinese one for Woo's The Killer - he loved that film), and she seemed both amused and impressed by his ability to read them all. She could only figure out the Spanish ones on her own, and not always correctly.

He had little chance to snoop around, but he did a bit, just because he was curious what type of person she was - other than wild and certain trouble - and there were some things that just told you about a person's personality, whether they knew it or not. Her refrigerator was mostly full of take out containers, as well as soda and a half a six pack. Not much of a cook, but probably not much of a drinker either. Not much of a reader either, as she only had a dozen or so paperbacks, mostly horror novels, which seemed funny. Then again, demon fighter - maybe these were comedies to her. She had an impressive collection of heavy metal and punk cds, though, and he was amused to see so many Skinny Puppy discs, as it confirmed she liked Canadians.

She had a closet, and a small three drawer dresser, but honestly she had the fewest clothes of any young woman he had ever met. A lot of leather, though.

She had lots of unopened mail on her kitchenette counter, Most of it was junk mail, though, so he didn't blame her. (Her last name was O'Hanlon? He should have guessed - she seemed Irish somehow.) She had nothing pre-programmed into the speed dial on her phone except take out places, and it suddenly occurred to him that she was probably pretty lonely. She seemed to know quite a few people, mostly guys (who mostly just wanted to sleep with her), but didn't use the term friends. And her place wasn't exactly set up for company; her furniture was her bed, a single armchair, a side table, and a television in a cabinet., but that was it. She was hardly set up to entertain, but she probably never did such a thing. They had that in common too.

He did figure out why Faith was such a loner, though. Over a dinner/breakfast/lunch of take out pizza, she told him of her rather convoluted past, involving almost destroying the world, almost killing Angel, torturing Wesley, going to jail, and nearly getting herself killed by Angelus. Well, it explained why she considered Angel her only real friend - he was the only one who believed she was worth saving (in spite of the fact that she tried to kill him, meaning he had to be the only vampire bucking for Saint status), and eventually convinced her of the same thing - and also why she didn't exactly have a plethora of friends falling through her door. "I helped save the world and all," she said, shrugging a single shoulder like it was no big deal, "but I'm pretty sure most people still don't trust me. It's okay, I guess I wouldn't either in their shoes … but it can be a little annoying at times. Like when they don't bother to tell me Wes is dead and stuff." She picked at a piece of crust, and asked casually, "So you were at his funeral?"

He told her about it, feeling bad for her. But on the other hand, his past just didn't seem so bad now. Yeah, he had that whole mutant assassin thing going on, but at least he was brainwashed and mindfucked into it; she couldn't say that. When he told her about it, she was very understanding, and told him to keep her in mind if he ever went after the Organization again. She tried not to hurt Humans, but that didn't prevent her from kicking the asses of people who deserved it.

It was starting to become freaky how much they had in common. But at least they had the age gap, her being in her mid-twenties, and him being … well, how the fuck old was he exactly? He didn't really like to think about it, but he had to be at least five times her age. When he mentioned it, she thought he was kidding and laughed. "Yeah, sure - all hundred year old men are ripped like you." Oh well - he couldn't say he didn't try.

They were watching some '70's spaghetti western while eating their pizza, trying to see if they could keep their hands off each other for a full hour. They were sitting on the bed in their underwear, trying to be good, but he found himself often staring at her legs, which were lean but muscular, and she had a small tattoo on her right ankle, the Japanese ideogram for strength. She had three tattoos, actually - a tribal one encircling her arm, and a small flaming sword on the small of her back. It led him to ask, "What, no piercings?" But they looked good on her.

He tried to focus on the television, and not look at her in her black lace underwear, but his eyes kept drifting back towards her. Which was funny, because he eventually caught her looking at his chest. She smirked, and said, "You've got great abs." He looked down at them, wondering how you judged. Well, no love handles was probably a good thing. "You must work out a lot."

He snorted. "No, I don't. I'm just luggin' around a hundred pounds of adamantium, and I fight a lot. Guess that keeps me in shape."

She grinned, stealing a piece of pepperoni from his pizza slice. "I prefer the "I can't afford to eat when the rent's due" diet."

"Bouncing doesn't pay that well?"

"It's more like life in L.A. is really expensive. And I live in a cheap shit neighborhood, so I'd hate to be living in a good one." She shifted on the bed, and rubbed her leg against his. It probably started out accidental, but when it continued, it wasn't. The feeling of her soft skin against his was now familiar, but no less welcome or arousing.

He raised his eyebrow at that, unable to suppress a smile. "We're not gonna finish the pizza, are we?"

"Probably not."

Just then, the movie on the television was interrupted by a "breaking news bulletin", and they both idly glanced at it, closing up the pizza box. Logan wondered what celebrity had been caught holding up a liquor store now.

But that wasn't it. There was a bombing in the Metro, and the well coifed, mechanical looking anchor seemed visibly agitated, her heavily painted eyes wild in her mask like face. Faith clicked her tongue in disapproval, shaking her head and making a few strands of her hair brush against his shoulder. "It'd be so much easier if demons did all the bad shit," she noted.

Before he could point out that they really didn't know demons _weren't _responsible for this (okay, it was unlikely, but still …), they cut to a reporter on the scene, a blandly handsome man who looked slightly breathless in a rugged way, He was in front of one of the Metro stations, which was cordoned off, and EMT's looked like they were working in the background, while cops, firefighters, and suspicious looking guys who could only be some breed of Fed went into the station or milled around outside it, keeping people back and keeping any of the plethora of news cameras from getting a good shot of the interior. The reporter was reading from a piece of paper that kept threatening to blow away - a hastily put together press announcement? It was L.A.; they probably could break a land speed record in p.r. spin - and he began to recount what he'd heard from some witnesses and survivors. The words "suicide bomber" made Logan pay more attention, and he had a sinking feeling when the reporter mentioned that there might have been a "special" kind of explosive used, as it didn't seem to hurt the train.

"Oh shit no," he groaned, rubbing his eyes. It wasn't possible, was it? This couldn't be those Black Fire people Abrams had mentioned, could it?

"What?" Faith asked, looking at him with curiosity.

Could he even tell her? It was supposedly "secret", although Abrams had trusted him enough to tell him. It was a judgment call, and he decided, ultimately, that if he told her she would probably want to get involved, and he didn't want that. "I just remembered I told Helga I'd do something for her yesterday. She's gonna beat my head in with a tire iron."

"What reminded you - the death or the destruction?"

"Bit of both."

"I really have to meet her sometime. She sounds like my kinda gal." And the funny thing was she probably was.

He slid off the bed and headed for her bathroom to take a shower, grabbing what he'd been able to find of his clothes from the floor. (His shirt was missing; it was probably in the corridor, or maybe the elevator. He honestly couldn't remember.) As soon as he shut and locked the door, he turned on the shower, and sat on the closed lid of the toilet and took his cell phone out of his coat pocket.

Marc's digging for dirt on Abrams hadn't turned up anything of note - highly decorated military officer, solid civil service record, blah blah blah - but he did find a telephone number. Logan punched it in now, and wondered if he should be doing this. He didn't have much time to wonder, as the phone was answered after the second ring. "Hello?"

He had no pleasantries for him. He didn't even want to be doing this. "The explosion in Los Angeles - was that Black Fire?"

There was a puzzled pause. "Logan?"

"Who else? Was it Black Fire?"

Another pause, but this time he heard the shuffle of papers in the gap. "We're waiting for a confirmation, but all signs seem to indicate it. Their last threat indicated they'd hit a major Western metropolis, and L.A. certainly qualifies."

"When will you know for sure?"

"Uh … hopefully within the hour. There are certain hallmarks to the attacks. Can we bring you back in?"

He hung up the phone, and shoved it back in his pocket. This wasn't his fault; this wasn't even his business. He only knew about this because Abrams tried to drag him back in.

So why did he feel like this was his fault?

* * *

Faith found him a shirt, since they couldn't find his. She had a couple of men's t-shirts in a bottom drawer (along with several stakes), and while she said she sometimes wore them as nightshirts, he suspected they were leftovers from former flings or boyfriends. Still, it smelled of her and fabric softener, so maybe he was just a cynical bastard.

Unknown to the general Human population, there were secret access tunnels throughout Los Angeles, built specifically for the demon population. All connected through existing sewer pipes, but even sewer workers would be hard pressed to find them, mainly because Humans neither designed them nor built them. Demons could find them, though, especially vampires who couldn't be exposed to the light of day.

Logan suspected something like that, but didn't know it - until now. Bob knew all the tunnels, knew where everything connected to everything, because he had felt it was in his best interest to know. Which is why Logan knew where there was a sewer tunnel just off Sunset that he could get into that would take him straight to a secret entrance in the Metro station.

It connected to a maintenance access closet, and he opened up all his senses, making sure he knew where everyone was before sneaking out. It wouldn't do to be seen by someone who could arrest him.

As it was, most of the forensic techs and other assorted investigators were in the train car itself, and he could hear the click of someone taking photos of the crime scene. The train car has windows with an occluding web of fine cracks, but they had not shattered, even though the windows on all but the driver's end were so red with blood they looked tinted. (How could an explosion that devastating _not _shatter the windows?) There were several people talking, but no one was in the driver's area, so he snuck up to that part of the train, on the tracks, and crouched down before it, hidden from view in case anyone looked.

What he heard wasn't encouraging. A female tech - the lead investigator? - was insisting there had to be some fragment of the bomb around, but they weren't finding anything. He took a deep breath, and tried to parse all the smells. Human; lots of Humans, and all their attendant chemical products, burned skin and hair, fear, and lots and lots of blood - all Human. But there was something wrong with the blood that smelled the strongest.

Not only did it smell burnt, but it smelled … chemical? Not quite, but very close. There was something wrong with the blood, something tainted about it, altered.

If that wasn't proof enough, he heard a man - a Fed? - complain, "I've never seen a bomber who leaves behind nothing but his feet. What kind of explosive did he use?"

Holy shit - he had Abrams' confirmation. Now what was he going to do about it?

* * *

The question tormented him all the way back to Faith's place. Canadian Intelligence might have been good to him at some point - they might have given him a home when no one else would, helped cover up his mutancy when the idea of it was merely a theoretical concept - but ultimately they abandoned him to the Organization, and that type of monumental betrayal could not be forgotten or forgiven. If they betrayed and used him once, they were apt to do it again.

This was bad, though. And if news got out that this was the work of mutant terrorists, that mutant registration act would probably be rushed through the House and the Senate, and things would go very bad for mutant kind very quickly - at least in the States. People had a tendency to act first and think later. Should he care, though? He'd be safe in Canada.

But what about the kids? And what about Brendan, for instance - what would happen to him if he was forced to register his DNA? Somebody might notice he couldn't be completely classified as Human, and what would happen then?

No, that couldn't happen. If he could stop it, he had to. But work with people who had already proven they would sell him out?

He could go to Xavier with this, but Xavier would probably want a non-violent solution, and Logan didn't honestly see that happening. The Professor was a dreamer, and that was fine - better than fine; that was great, in today's world, and he wished him all the luck in the world that he would ultimately be right - but sometimes it was best to leave the cynics to take care of the nasty problems. And he was nothing if not a cynic.

Back at the apartment, Faith had taken the time to shower herself, and put the pizza away. She was wearing a white terrycloth robe that looked like it had been nicked from a higher end hotel, and had a bright blue towel wrapped around her hair. It made her look even younger, and strangely endearing. "Hey, get your ass kicked?" she asked comically, sitting down on the bed with a can of diet soda.

"Not yet." He collapsed in the one chair she had, and told her a heavily edited version of his problem - that Canadian Intelligence, who he once worked for, wanted him back for a job involving a mutant terrorist, one who was probably responsible for today's bombing. But since they used him and threw him away, he was reluctant to trust them.

She listened to him, looking a bit wide eyed at some points, but there was something very world weary about Faith when her guard was down. Yes, she was chronologically young, but she had been aged a great deal by her tempestuous and ultimately sad life. She considered it for quite a while, then said, quietly but firmly, "If you think you can stop this, Logan, you have to try. Do you think you can?"

He rubbed his eyes, pondering whether he should lie or not. But he'd gone this far, so why pussy out now? "Yeah, I do."

She nodded. "Then you have to do it. "

She was right, of course. He supposed he'd already guessed that Faith would act as his conscience, since she herself was a reformed bad guy. There was no hero like a reformed villain. "If you need help …" she began, but shrugged. "But I guess I'm not Canadian, so I'm out."

"If I need some, you'll be the first person I call," he promised, and he meant it. Nobody would expect a sexy girl to be so full of ass kicking terror, so she had surprise on her side.

He levered himself out of the chair and went to her, leaning down to give her a kiss on the forehead. Her skin tasted clean, like a winter breeze. She grabbed him by the lapels and pulled him down into a more passionate kiss, He returned it , and slid his arm along her back, now certain she wasn't wearing anything beneath the robe. He forced himself to break away, and rested his forehead against hers. "I'd better go before I can't."

That made her smile. "Be careful. Come back to me, old man."

"They couldn't keep me away," he replied, kissing her on the top of the head before making himself leave. This relationship probably couldn't last, especially since it seemed to be mostly physical, but damn - he intended to enjoy this while it lasted. Still, he could get used to her very easily.

Out in the corridor, he hit the button for the elevator, and listened to the rickety old thing rattle as it started its arthritic journey upward. As he waited, he pulled out the cell, and punched in Abrams number once more. Okay, if he had to do it this way, fine, but they were going to play by his rules. If he had to get used, it would be under his terms.

As soon as Abrams picked up, he said, "I'm ready. Bring me back in."


	2. Chapter 2

2

Since he had to get to Canada fast, he went over to Rags's place over the taco stand and woke him up by pounding on the door until he almost broke it down. He had a major hangover (big surprise), so he poured triple espressos down his throat until he felt conscious enough to form complete sentences, and asked him to teleport him to Toronto. Rags looked at him funny until he could make the words come out of his mouth. "Why d'nt ya use Bob's powers to 'port yerself?"

Somehow, that seemed to be a really silly question. "I don't have that much of his power. Can you give me a lift?" Although he phrased it like a question, it really wasn't.

Rags did, probably just to get him out of his hair, and at his behest teleported him to a rather bland office block in Toronto, inside a dark parking garage to limit the chances of anyone seeing them come in. Rags immediately returned to L.A., while he walked out into the sunshine of a clear Toronto afternoon, about three hours closer to dusk.

On the next block over was a big, imposing modern office building that seemed to sprawl in the center of its own courtyard, and it didn't hide the fact that it was a government building. People in suits came in and out of the large smoked glass doors, and he passed a couple of uniformed cops standing at attention outside. They looked at him like a potential threat.

The inner lobby was heavily air conditioned, and had more security, this time in plain clothes, milling around with the civilian and government workers. He could feel them watching him with intense suspicion - why? Because he was the only person who wasn't wearing a suit? - when he went up to the front desk. The receptionist, a slightly plump Korean woman with a pleasant face, looked up at him with a hard eyed wariness as he approached. "I have an appointment to see Colonel Lafayette."

Her look was frankly disbelieving. It was probably an effort of will not to scoff. "Your name?"

"Logan."

She looked at her computer screen, fingers tapping away on her keyboard with a machine gun rapidity, and he saw her eyes widen ever so slightly as she found his name. Abrams said he'd be alerting him, and he "knew about his case". That sounded somewhat ominous, but he figured if he'd gone this far, he might as well go all the way.

The woman - whose security badge identified her as Christine - picked up her phone and punched the appropriate button. "Sir, a Mister Logan is here to see you." She listened for a moment, and then responded, "Yes sir." before hanging up. She looked at him with a stiff formality, all disbelief scrubbed from her expression. "He's sending an aide down to escort you up. It'll just be one moment."

He nodded, wondering why he needed to be escorted. Maybe it was protocol. "Sure, thanks."

There was a bank of elevators dominating the rear of the lobby, and he watched them, trying to see if he could guess which one was the aide sent for him. The third elevator to arrive and spill someone out into the lobby contained a single person, a uniformed female soldier with hair so short you could barely see a wisp of dirty blonde hair peeking out from beneath her cap. Her hard brown eyes settled on him, a hawk sighting its prey, and he knew she was his escort. Why did he have a feeling she was told to look for the man who didn't seem to belong?

She came up to him like a person preparing to spar, and asked, "Are you Mr. Logan?" Her voice had a light Newfoundland accent, which he thought was mildly amusing.

"Indeed I am. Lead on."

Annoyance flashed across her raw boned face, as if she found his casualness personally insulting, but rather than comment on it, she spun stiffly on her heels and marched back towards the lift. He followed, suppressing the urge to mimic her walk and her ramrod straight posture. He had no idea why the urge to do so had come on so suddenly - he blamed Bob. It seemed like the type of thing Bob would do.

They rode up to the fourteenth floor in silence - like she even wanted to be in the same elevator with him; why would she bother to talk to him? - and he followed her down a sterile white corridor, the industrial carpet a bland and uninspiring beige. None of the doors they passed were marked in an obvious way, so that's probably why he needed an escort.

She stopped at the fifth door down the hall on the right, and rapped on the door before opening it. "Mr. Logan, sir," she said, stepping in and then moving aside to let him in.

Colonel Peter Lafayette stood up from behind his desk, which sat before a large window overlooking Toronto. It wasn't a great view, but still impressive, one indicative of status. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said mechanically.

She nodded, saluted, then turned to leave, closing the door behind her.

Lafayette's office really said nothing about him - it was all sterile chrome, beige and white, with no personal effects, although he figured that would be typical of a rigid or career military man. He was tall and broad shouldered, not in bad shape for a guy in his fifties, thinning brown hair combed back severely over a kind of anonymous face, made memorable only by his square jaw. He wondered if that opened him up to Dudley Do-Right comments. "Logan … may I call you that?"

He shrugged. "Might as well. Nothin' else to call me."

He nodded tersely, as if that made all the sense in the world. "Of course. Thank you for coming in. I understand your reluctance after being off the grid for so long." Lafayette was connected to Joint Task Force Two (JTF2), part of the Special Operation Forces. JTF2 was concerned mostly with counter-terrorism, which was where this technically fell. There was very little known about JTF2, though, as it was as secretive as any part of the military-industrial-intelligence complex.

He snorted humorously, collapsing in the hard backed chair in front of his desk. "That's a very nice way to put it."

Lafayette sat down, keeping his posture achingly straight. His expression gave nothing away. "David told me you had some conditions."

"Yeah. I do this my way, and this is _not _a permanent thing. I do the gig, completely off the books, and get the hell out. Is that understood? I'm not back in the game; I'm not one of you. Clear?"

He studied him, his eyes the color of an overcast sky. "That is acceptable. David said you weren't really interested in coming back at all."

"No, I wasn't. But I checked out the scene in L.A. - it was definitely a Black Fire hit."

He nodded tersely. "We know. We had confirmation -"

"Oh, and I have one more demand," he interrupted, as he wanted to get it out before he forgot. It was the deal breaker; if he said no, he would walk. "I want to know what I did for you people. Supposedly the files have been destroyed, but come on - the Organization couldn't have gotten everything."

Lafayette got a strange look on his face, one that seemed to indicate grim amusement, and suddenly he pulled out a manila envelope from beneath a blue file on his desktop, and slid it across to him. "You were, under a succession of pseudonyms, a key operative for Canadian Intelligence; a translator, both civilian and military; and a decorated sniper for the Emergency Response Team, the paramilitary arm of the RCMP. The Organization did sadly have a plant within the Canadian government, and they were able to destroy your files, but we did find some forgotten scraps. These are all of them to date."

His heart started beating rapidly at the mention of the word "sniper". He knew he must have been - he had that weird knowledge and skills that had cropped up from time to time - but he couldn't quite believe it. He took the file and glanced at the contents. It was just a single sheet of paper, giving pseudonyms, dates of "activity", rank and citations (if any), and sometimes a thumbnail sized identification photo, to prove it was indeed him. The ERT was like the Canadian equivalent of SWAT, if he remembered correctly - they were the guys you called out for hostage situations, major league shoot outs, and other bad shit. That would explain how he knew how boring it was to be a sniper, and how he knew his guns.

He closed the file, mainly because he didn't want Lafayette to see him getting shaken over yet another puzzle piece of his past falling into place. "So, the bombing - what do you know that I don't?"

He raised a pale eyebrow at that, and opened his blue folder. "I suppose that depends on what you know. Security cameras caught who is most likely our bomber this time out, Mitchell Soames, a C.I.A. operative who had been in Asrahar, working under the identity of aid worker. The thing is, we have him verified in Asrahar as of ten o'clock last night."

He didn't even need to think about what that meant - it almost felt like he was slipping into a groove he hadn't realized he had. "They have a teleporter."

"Or someone of similar ability, yes, as there no way he could have gotten from Rasiva to Los Angeles in that short of time, even if there was a flight leaving at ten o' one - and I can assure you, there wasn't."

"So what was Soames doing on the Metro?"

"Now that we don't know. But some reports of our bombers before detonation have them as highly disoriented."

This all felt so strangely familiar. "Telepath?"

"Perhaps. Or maybe Occam's Razor applies - perhaps they're just drugged."

"You can't tell from the blood?"

He shook his head. "Considering we have to scrape it burnt off the walls, no." Lafayette glanced down at his folder, and pulled out a sheet of paper. "Because the only Westerners who go to Asrahar these days are aid workers, journalists, and missionaries, you'll be going as Logan Chandler, a reporter for the Toronto Sun."

Logan took the piece of paper from him, mentally approving the last name Chandler - after Raymond Chandler. He suddenly wondered if it was one of the pseudonyms he used with these people; it might make sense that they'd resurrect it. "Is there a Toronto Sun?"

"There is now," he replied dryly. "Your byline has been added to several international stories on their website."

"You got that up fast."

"Anybody can create a very realistic website, given an hour's head start and a room full of techs. You were also nominated for a Pulitzer two years ago for your series on the resurgence of heroin production in Afghanistan post-Taliban."

He scoffed as he checked out the sheet, which was basically a phony C.V. and some random stats he probably ought to know for his cover. His middle name was Marlowe? Cute. "Wow - they just give those things out to anybody, huh?"

"Your cover is slightly complex for a reason. You need to tell everyone that you're in Asrahar to report on the recovery effort since the last earthquake. But the truth is you're actually there to do a story on this mysterious Black Fire cult. You may feel the need to discreetly leak that out to one or two people, as necessary."

"A cover for a cover?" He was only briefly puzzled. Again, he could feel gears kicking in, some part of his consciousness that he hadn't used in a long while; the part that could spit out words like "sitrep" and "egress", as Marc might say. "Oh, right. Because he'd be a fucking nut if he admitted it right off the bat. It'd also scream "trap"."

Lafayette nodded, lips pressed together tightly. "It'd be lethal for a real Western journalist to admit such a thing, but Black Fire themselves would see it for what it was - bait. Not that they're all that scared of discovery."

"Not if they picked a CIA agent as their latest bomb."

"Correct. They're taunting everyone now; they want us to know we can't touch them."

Logan folded up the sheet of paper, and shoved it in the front pocket of his jeans. He knew he'd have to destroy it soon, but that was easy enough - rip it to small bits and flush it down a toilet. Even the most dedicated spy wasn't going to sift through a septic tank for soggy scraps of paper. "Let them keep thinking that."

"Oh, we will. The Brits are employing members of MI-6 to the area, and while they'll be covert, we expect them to know they're in the area on their trail. The Americans are, we believe, sending the Organization in. They should keep them distracted enough that your placement will be easily overlooked, and accepted for what it is."

"Not if the Organization see me. They know who I am; I think I'm on their personal most wanted list."

He met his gaze steadily, eyes like chips of flint. "Deal with that however you see fit."

There it was - carte blanche. He was basically saying _"Kill them if you want to; we don't care_". Not that he needed their permission ...

"This is a ghost operation," Lafayette continued, as if he hadn't just told him he could take out America's reps with extreme prejudice. "I'm sure you know what that means as a professional ghost, but just for the record, if you are caught we will disavow all knowledge of you. Anyone who checks will not find you in our records; you were never here, and we don't know who you are."

Professional ghost? Was he referring to the fact that he'd dropped out of life for so damn long, or was that an actual job description? "Ghosts" were a special type of operative; they usually got sent in to take care of the dirty work, and leave no trace of themselves behind. Was that what he did for Canadian Intelligence? Was he, at one point, one of their ghosts? (There was Marc's explanation for how he was able to drop off the radar for so long: he was trained to do it.)

Logan nodded, getting it better than anyone. He was pretty certain now that he'd been in this situation before. Maybe there weren't that many records of him for the Organization to destroy. "I won't get caught." And if he did, Black Fire would regret it. The Organization would regret it even more.

"I'm inclined to believe you." He closed the file and paused, long enough to signal a subject change. "There's an internet cafe on the next block. I suggest you go there, have a cup of coffee, refresh your memory on Asrahar and the region. One of our people should meet you shortly, and give you your passport, visa, and other things you might find necessary for your trip. But I do need to know if you still have a preference in sidearms."

Still? That was a curious choice of word. "I don't need a gun."

"No, perhaps not, but we believe our adventurous journalist friend might smuggle one on with him for personal protection. What do you think he'd carry?"

Ah, okay - he had a point. He didn't worry about protecting himself, because he knew he could; Logan Chandler might not be so certain in his invulnerability. "How about an HK USP Compact, nine millimeter?"

Lafayette considered that. "Easy to conceal, lightweight, just expensive enough to make him feel he's getting the top of the line. Sounds good. Standard ammunition?"

He mulled that over, trying to decide what kind of person Logan Chandler was going to be. "No - hollow points. He thinks he's macho." He figured Chandler would be living out a personal dream to be Hemmingway, with just a touch of Hunter S. Thompson; a stupid son of a bitch who thought he was an adventurer, who thought he was doing something noble, but could only lie to himself for so long before he had to get shitfaced.

Lafayette nodded in what seemed to be approval. "You do know what you're doing. That's good."

Logan shoved himself up to his feet, wondering exactly what that meant. "You think I wouldn't?"

"I wouldn't have agreed to bring you in if I did. It's just that I know the Organization … did things to your mind."

_Fucked it 'til it was oatmeal _was the implication, and he supposed he should thank him for not saying it aloud. "Abrams vouched for me, yeah?"

"He did."

"Then you know it doesn't matter. This is a job I can do."

Lafayette stood as well, somehow managing to keep his rigid military bearing. "Excellent. Once you arrive Asrahar, a package will be sent to your hotel room. Inside the package will be a case, and a satellite phone. If you need to get in touch with us, use it, but when not in use, I recommend you store it in the hotel safe or a safe deposit box. If anyone spies the sat phone -"

"My cover's blown. Yeah, I know the drill."

"Call us when you're ready to be extracted, or need help. Any information you can give us about Black Fire will be appreciated - but we don't expect full dossiers or warm bodies."

Intelligence flaks really did like to talk obliquely, didn't they? He was saying _"Kill them all" _without saying a single one of those words. None of them cared exactly what happened to Black Fire, as long as their threat status was reduced to zero.

Which was fine with him, because that was exactly what he intended to do, whether he got permission or not.

3

People who said it never rained in Southern California had obviously never come to see him. Angel was fairly certain a little rain cloud followed him around everywhere. He could hear the rain tapping against the window like skeletal fingers, trickling down the gutter with a sound that was almost percussive.

He would have looked outside, but it wasn't nearly as overcast as it should have been on a rainy day. He glimpsed out the side of the blinds, but the glare hurt his eyes, and that was that. He sat behind Bren's desk, and surfed through the files he'd kept. Because he had an eidetic memory, all his reports had an incredible amount of detail - he not only typed up their eye color, but what they'd most likely had for breakfast, and how expensive or cheap their shoes were. Bren was probably a natural detective simply because he could remember every single detail with crystal clarity. He should encourage him to try and enter the police department.

Things hadn't been slow since the death of Ananga; they too had been dead. Which was a good thing, actually, as he'd given everybody the week off, since there was such a general upset over the temporary death of Bob. It had shaken him even, and why he wasn't sure, because Bob had chosen to do that, he knew someone had to die and picked himself; his death was not Angel's fault. And yet after losing everyone else in his life, it felt personal, and it felt hard. It took him a day and a half to stop feeling like shit, and he still hadn't quite gotten over the anger.

Giles didn't take the week off. He took a day, and then came back, even though there were no clients. Basically he'd spent the day rearranging the books according to some personal formula, looking things up, and stocking up on magical items. Giles was of the opinion they should prepare for "war", simply because a lot of the beings Wolfram and Hart pulled in probably hadn't gone away just because the big gun they were supposed to support was dead. They could still come after them, and probably would. The only thing holding them back was the fear of Bob - if they found out he was actually dead, they were totally screwed. Angel's way of preparing had been to hit the auction houses and antiquaries in search of weapons and old, powerful items. The funny thing was, he'd found quite a few.

He hated waiting. He wanted to be more - oh, he shuddered to even think a buzzword - "proactive", but so far, Wolfram and Hart had gone underground, laying low to perhaps avoid the wrath of any Powers. How long would that last, though?

Giles was out on one of his shopping trips - apparently, the magic shops were all low on dried mandrake root, which he found personally disturbing - and that's why he was surprised when the office door opened. He almost said "Back already", except it wasn't Giles he smelled.

"Wow, did I walk into a funeral home by mistake?" Faith wondered, looking around before giving him a smart ass grin.

"It's a sideline I'm considering," he deadpanned. "What brings you here?"

She kicked the door shut and shrugged, water droplets glistening like glass beads in her dark hair. "Had nothin' to do, figured I'd swing by and see if you guys needed some help. But I'm guessin' not."

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, tired of staring at the computer screen. "Not at that moment, no. How are you doing?"

She flung herself in the chair in front of the desk, slumping down and putting one of her boots up against the desk edge, so casual she was almost comatose. "Pretty good actually. What about you? Still fumin' about Bob?"

"No, I think I'm getting over it. Can I get you some coffee?"

"Sure, why not?"

He pushed himself up, carrying his own empty mug over to the coffee pot. According to Bren, it also had a "cappuccino function", but he had no idea how to activate it, and was almost afraid to try. Besides, since when was plain old coffee not good enough? People were just going nuts for coffee that had precious little coffee in it. "So where is everybody?" Faith wondered.

"Bren and Naomi have the week off, unless something comes up, and Giles is out searching for mandrake root." Since he figured she meant absolutely everyone, he went on as he searched for and found a clean mug. It was Brendan's - it had a Far Side cartoon on it that Angel didn't have the balls to admit he didn't get - but since he wasn't here, he figured Bren wouldn't care. "Mordred went back to England, or wherever he's from; Xander is back working on the construction site, and asked me not to ever admit knowing him - which I'm happy to do; and … well, I honestly don't know where Logan is. Hanging around, I suppose."

"Oh, I know where he is," Faith said, in a strangely knowing, amused voice.

He filled both their mugs, hoping this pot of coffee was better than the last one - that tasted like graveyard dirt. "You talked to him?"

"A bit. Honestly we didn't talk much." She paused briefly. "He's one of the best fucks I've ever had."

Angel fumbled the mug in his hand, and nearly dropped it. When he turned to look at her, she was giving him a Cheshire Cat grin, amused by his sudden clumsiness. "You could warn a guy before you say something like that, you know."

"What, and miss the reaction?"

He scowled at her as he gave her Bren's mug and retreated to the other side of the desk. He really wasn't that surprised she and Logan had gotten together in that fashion, not considering how they looked at each other when they first met. You could almost smell the hormones. "So I take it he's recovering somewhere?"

That made her smile, eyes sparkling like this was too much fun - or he was too much fun, whichever. "Naw, he had some business in Canada to take care of, but he'll be back soon. So tell me, how old is he really?"

He sat down and took a sip of his coffee, which was hot enough to burn his lips. He wasn't sure it tasted any better. "What did he tell you?"

"He said he didn't know, but he figured if he was honest, he was probably pushing a hundred. But he was yankin' my chain, right?"

"Umm, no, not really. I'm pretty sure he's at least one hundred years old, probably more. His healing factor severely retards the aging process, to the point where his chronological age is hard to pinpoint."

Faith was staring at him in disbelief, her jaw slack. "Come on! You guys are shitting me!"

He shook his head, adding a small shrug. "I think Logan feels much the same way. He doesn't like to talk about his age. The fact that he mentioned it to you is something."

She raised her eyebrows at that. "Is it? You mean, like -"

But she never got to finish her sentence, as there was an odd noise, a sort of muffled, reversed "pop" in the back of the room, and they were both on their feet, tense and defensive, even as they saw Mordred appear out of this air.

The half-Human hybrid sorcerer looked at them both suspiciously, like he knew they really didn't like him. "Did I interrupt a tea party?"

Angel crossed his arms over his chest, staring at him with as neutral an expression as possible. "No, we w-"

"I don't give a toss," he interrupted curtly, walking towards his desk. He eyed Faith warily, as if aware she could probably get a good shot in if she really wanted to. He held out a slip of paper, little more than a Post-It note. "Don't say I never did anything for you."

Angel took it, and scanned it quickly. It was just a name, Elias French, and an address for a place in Malibu. "What is this?"

"The name of the man who intends to rebuild the Circle of the Black Thorn." Mordred turned and returned to the back of the room. "Consider this a favor you owe me."

Before Angel could tell him to go fuck himself, Mordred had disappeared again.

Faith looked at the piece of paper with a curious look on her face. "So what does that mean exactly?"

Mordred could be lying to him, but it seemed unlikely, mostly because he would have stayed around to enjoy the show. "Trouble," he admitted, wondering if it was time to call in the troops.

Or maybe he should just take care of this problem himself this time.


	3. Chapter 3

3

Some place were naturally depressing. Asrahar seemed to be one of those places.

It didn't help that it seemed to have a past steeped in misery. For the last three years, it had been ruled by a military strongman, General Assad Muhammed, who took the country over in a bloody coup, deposing his former boss. On the good side, ethnic violence between the Hindus and the Muslims was at an all time low; the fact that Muhammed was so dictatorial and repressive that no one could hurt anyone without his approval was the bad side of this equation.

His regime was notoriously corrupt, and the police - generally referred to as "Muhammed's men" - were as feared as the old KGB: a lot of people who went to prison were never seen again. But almost no one cared beyond Amnesty International and Human Rights Watch, especially since it was a tiny flyspeck of a country whose main export was opium, heroin, and Human rights violations. It was weird that Black Fire would make that their home base, especially since they fell squarely in the "mutants are a product of Western decadence" camp, but that just told him Black Fire had money. Muhammed and his men were happy to look the other way, as long as you greased their palms with lots and lots of cash.

There had been a rather large earthquake two months ago, killing several hundred people and doing a few million dollars in damage. Muhammed had strict rules for the aid agencies coming in - namely, he wanted a cut - and as a result, little had been done in the way of recovery. It was so sadly typical of countries with tinpot dictators that it hardly raised an eyebrow.

One of Lafayette's people came to him with a briefcase and a knapsack, all of which had everything he needed to get past with his Logan Chandler identity, as well as a change of clothes. He didn't know if that was a comment on what he was wearing, or simple thoughtfulness.

There weren't a lot of flights directly to Rasiva - even though it was, in a purely technical sense, an "American ally", after several kidnappings and killings of Western journalists and missionaries, it ended up on the "watch list" of several Western nations, and planes just didn't go there much anymore. Cargo flights did, though - how else could they get the heroin out? - so that's how he'd inevitably get there. Right now, he was on a first class flight to New Delhi, which is where he'd catch a lift on a cargo plane. It was typical of cargo planes in the area to offer seats to missionaries, aid workers, journalists, and the world's stupidest "adventure" tourists.

First class was really nice. He wasn't used to it - plush seats, lots of leg room, full sized drinks, staff that was actually nice to you. It was pretty cool, and he could see himself getting used to it.

At some point he must have nodded off, because he suddenly found himself laying in a bed, next to the warm and soft body of a woman. It could have been Faith or Mariko or Srina or Yasha (okay, not Yasha - Genevieve?); for some reason, he was unable to discern her smell, or see her face. But he didn't really care, as he was warm and comfortable, and more than content to sleep.

Except there was a noise. A creak of a floorboard that made him sit up and look around, and that's when he saw a door open up in a solid wall, its hinge squeaking like a coffin lid. After watching it for a moment, he got up and approached the door, wondering if something was coming out, or if it wanted him to go in. He wasn't much for waiting, so he pushed the door open and went in.

He was briefly blinded by a bright flash of light, but then he found himself in an empty Way Station, the jukebox playing the Ramones' "Pet Semetary". It looked a bit more stark and sad now that it was empty, like all the freaky beings gave the place a certain spark of life and character it didn't otherwise have. "Okay, I get it," he said aloud. "You're trying to send me a message. About what?"

He was hoping for a response, but he didn't get one. Scowling, he went down the narrow corridor that led to the bathrooms, the back exit, and Bob's office. He figured if Bob would be anywhere, it would be in his office, but as soon as he shoved his door open, he stumbled into another place.

This time he was in a tasteful, soothing Japanese style garden, one that looked familiar somehow. He stood on a gravel path before a koi pond, where he could see golden flashes of the fish as they swam just beneath the surface of the wind rippled water. Looking around, he saw a Buddhist temple, and understanding clicked into place. This was the Buddhist temple he visited in London, where he meditated so he could figure out how to fully unlock the Bob powers within him. It was heavily symbolic, with him having to drink water the color of Bob's blood.

"Is that what this is about?" he asked thin air. "You locked up your powers in me, and I've got to unlock 'em to use 'em, is that it?" He sighed and shook his head. "What the hell's wrong with just givin' 'em to me, huh? That's just too simple for you, isn't it?"

He crouched down beside the pond, and confirmed the water was clear. He couldn't possibly expect him to drink from a koi pond anyways, could he? Unless he was in a perverse mood. Why lock the powers in him in the first place? He'd be the first to admit that he couldn't handle all of Bob's power, but some he could manage. Maybe Bob just wanted him to embrace Buddhism.

He kept expecting him to show up, but he hadn't, and Logan got the feeling he wasn't going to. He didn't even have a rudimentary sense of his presence; he was alone here. Wasn't that what he ultimately wanted? To finally be alone in his own head, to have nothing but his own mind. He thought about that while staring down into the pond, and realized - not for the first time - that that was actually kind of scary.

Suddenly he saw himself across the pond. He was dressed a bit differently, with combat boots, olive drab pants, a white tank top, and his once ubiquitous dog tags, but it was him. He crouched down to be at his eye level, and said, "This is familiar. You know this."

What? This temple, this intelligence shit? He already knew that. "Tell me something I don't know."

"I am. Think beyond this."

He grunted in annoyance. "We hate this cryptic shit. Just tell me what you mean."

He stared at him, as if trying to decide if he was really him or not, and then -

Logan was jolted awake literally, just as the pilot came on to advise everyone to put their seatbelts back on, as they were experiencing turbulence. He groaned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, wondering what he'd missed. What had he done before - what was he supposed to know?

Déjà vu he couldn't explain afflicted him so much that he pretty much ignored it. Had he been to Asrahar before? Well, that wouldn't be overly surprising … but he had a feeling it couldn't be that simple. Nothing ever was.

He glanced out the window at the dark sky, and wondered if he'd figure out what he was missing before he lived to regret it.

* * *

Elias French was one strange man.

From the records they were able to find, he didn't seem to exist until the early '90's, where he made a fortune in the early internet boom, and got out just before the bubble burst. Wise investments kept him bringing in the dough, and he owned the biggest demon brothel in Southern California, as well as the only demon strip club in L.A., Exotica. He also had a controlling interest in a soft core production company, Dark Desires Limited, which produced adult films for both Human and demon markets, and he seemed to be famous, although for what wasn't clear. He had a Malibu beach home between two celebrities, and a Google search found photos of him at the occasional film premiere, where he appeared - for all intents and purposes - Human. He was a doughy looking man with a preference for white suits, ala Tom Wolfe, occasionally paired with a brightly patterned shirt, and his face was soft and round, almost avuncular. He had a close cropped mustache/beard combo, and a fringe of brown hair that was a slightly darker color than his stubble, and his bald pate was usually covered by a white fedora style hat. In most of the movie premiere pics, he had a big Hollywood smile, revealing blindingly white teeth and perfect caps, and you'd think there'd be something comforting about him if not soothing in his general anonymity. But there wasn't, and it took Angel a minute to figure out what the problem was. It was his eyes - they were dead.

They were these small, hard spots in his broad face, piss holes in snow, so reflective in their emptiness they could have been made of glass. They were shark eyes in a Human face, and they were enough to give him a bit of a shiver at the base of his spine. Was he really a demon, or was he just a Human predator? Which would make him feel better?

Giles came back during their research, and once he saw a picture of him, he thought he looked familiar, but couldn't place it. He'd gone off to do his own personal search, leaving him and Faith alone again. Her frustration with surfing the web and coming up mostly empty was starting to show. "We have his address," she pointed out. "Why don't we just pay him a visit and make him talk?"

"And be unprepared? We could be walking into a trap."

"So? We're good at getting out of 'em."

True or not, he didn't want to risk it, especially after losing so many people. There was something that just didn't jibe here, and it wasn't just his lack of records previous to 1990, or his dead eyes; something about this just felt wrong. After all this time, he had to trust his instincts; sometimes it was the only useful part of the vampire in him.

Giles came back into the office, holding an old leather book that smelled of age, and the crow's feet gathered at the corners of his eyes stood out in relief. He knew before Giles said it, "We have a problem."

"Don't we always?" Faith countered, as Giles laid the book open on Brendan's desk.

The book Giles had was a Watcher's journal, and the page he had opened it to had a small black and white photograph of a man in the top right hand corner. He had a thin mustache, no beard, but it was clear it was French; the dead eyes were a giveaway. "This man isn't Elias French - he's Elijah Finch, an actor from the nineteen hundreds who was so desperate for fame and immortality that he made a deal with demon Ays for both. He received them, but the problem was Ays demanded a payment for continuing to give Finch what he wanted."

"Let me guess," Angel interjected. "Human lives."

"No, just Human souls, and an occasional heart. From what we can tell, Finch just killed people for the fun of it."

"Lovely." Angel scanned the entry, which was written in a more stilted, formal version of English, reminding him how much he disliked the late 1800's. It probably didn't help that that was around the time frame he was cursed.

Faith scoffed, tucking her hair behind her ears. "So he's a demon possessed, serial killing, old fame whore. Should be easy to take care of."

Giles shook his head, his lips pressed into a tight line. He didn't like what he had to say. "No, it's not. As long as their bargain holds, Finch - or French, whatever he calls himself - is indeed immortal. We can't kill him; I'm fairly certain he can't even be hurt. This Watcher, Francine Barrie, tried to vanquish him with mysticism, but that backfired on her."

"Backfired as in it killed her instead?" Angel guessed.

Giles nodded. "It … wasn't pretty. Finch moved across the globe, changing his identity every now and again so as not to garner too much suspicion, not only about his strange fame and ageless appearance, but about the trail of bodies he left behind. Speaking of which, I found this while I was reading Francine's journal."

Giles pulled a piece of paper out from the back of the book, and Angel saw it was a computer print out before he read the contents. There were several newspaper headlines about a series of murders in the Southern California area, done by someone dubbed the "Loveless Killer". Faith, reading over his shoulder, asked, "Why Loveless?"

"Because the first body was found in a Dumpster off Loveless Street. It seems to follow the pattern of previous killings attributed to Finch - heart removed, and signs of … mutilation."

Faith pointed at one headline and sub headline that was slightly different from the rest on the list. "This calls him the S&M Killer."

"Yes, well … I'm afraid the mutilations seem related to that. Finch seems to have some … disturbing perversions."

"Vanilla isn't enough for him?" Although it sounded like a question, Faith didn't mean it that way.

Angel put the read out aside, swallowing back a general distaste that stung like bile in his mouth. "Are these sex crimes?"

Giles grimaced and looked down at the floor, straightening his glasses in a nervous gesture. "Umm … going by past occurrence, it would seem to be."

"Eww," Faith commented, wrinkling her nose. "Necrophilia?"

"Amongst other things, yes," Giles reluctantly admitted.

"Okay, that's it," Faith said, heading towards the corridor and presumably the weapons locker. "You know, I can roll with kinks, I'm cool with that, but I draw the line at some of this shit. Necrophilia is just … eww. I can't even imagine what kind of mommy issues you gotta have to do something that sick."

"It's not a "kink"; it's a full blown perversion and psychosis." Giles said in disgust. Clearly he was holding back details that were more repulsive than what little he'd hinted at.

He knew he'd regret it, but Angel went to the L.A. Times home page and did a search for the article on the latest "Loveless" killing. The article that came up contained few details on the actual killing - the police always held those back, so they had something that could help them identify the real killer, and make copycat killings pretty obvious - but as soon as he saw the victim and her stats, he couldn't help but groan inwardly. "Fifteen," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. It made sense, of course - the younger the soul, the more of a "delicacy" it was to some demons. Although some liked the "tradition" of virgins, all they really wanted was a "fresh" soul.

Faith stopped in the doorway, and looked back at him sharply.

Giles sighed, and he almost seemed disappointed that he looked it up. "The latest victim, Susan Reyes, was a fifteen year old prostitute."

She seemed to take a moment to process that, then her look turned savage. "Okay, that's fucking it. A child molester _and_ a necrophiliac? Tell me you got a chainsaw in that armory of yours. I'm gonna take his dick off before I kill him."

"I understand your feelings, I share them, but he can't be hurt," Giles replied wearily. "Not while his deal with Ays is still in place."

"So we break the deal with Ays, or we drive it out of him." Angel closed the web browser, because all it was doing was making him angry, and he needed to have a dispassionate focus right now.

"Drive him out?" Faith repeated. "What, like exorcism?"

Giles snorted in distain. "Bloody performances, that's what those are. Holy water only works on vampires, and then it only burns them. It doesn't drive demons out, and certainly reading them the Lord's Prayer in Latin isn't going to do anything. Except perhaps make them laugh."

Angel knew he was right. There were certain rituals that could expel demons, but usually those were astonishingly weak demons to begin with. The stronger the demon, the harder they were to kick out. "There are spells we can use to trap it."

Giles rubbed his forehead with his palm, a rare nervous gesture that was frightening for its simple scarcity and sudden appearance now. "Ays is an elemental demon. No spell is going to work on him while he's a part of Finch. Francine discovered that the hard way."

An elemental demon meant he was tied to this plane. He could displace almost any other demon if he wanted to - he could take over a vampire or a Berserker if he really wanted to.

"Shit!" Faith kicked the door jamb in frustration, and left a dent. The only comfort was if she hadn't held back, she'd have collapsed the whole frame.

"There has to be a way," Angel told her, or maybe he was telling himself. He honestly wasn't sure. "Can we lure him out of Finch?"

Giles pondered that, concern and distaste making the lines on his face stand out. He looked tired, as if just the thought of a man like Finch had drained something vital out of him, and he couldn't say he blamed him. The demon was only responsible for some of this; the Finch part, the Human half, was responsible not only for some of it as well, but possibly the most stomach turning part. He tortured and slaughtered fellow Human beings because it was the only thing that gave him pleasure anymore. Finally, Giles said, "We might be able to. If we can discover what Ays wants - above his deal with Finch - it should be easy to lure him out. Once out, Finch will be extremely vulnerable, and Ays might be easier to contain."

Faith ran a hand through her hair, and came back into the room, placing her hands on her hips like she couldn't believe how long it had taken to get them to this point. "Fine, great. What the hell does the freakazoid want?"

Giles didn't have to think about it for long. "Souls. But Finch has been supplying him that with great regularity, so I don't see how that would work."

"We offer him a lot?" She said hesitantly. "More than he could?"

Giles grimaced as he considered that, but he'd already started to shake his head. Giving a soul eater lots of souls would only work if it was greedy or starving, and it had been with Finch for well over one hundred years - it had probably had ample opportunities to leave him behind for greener pastures. No, if they wanted to lure Ays out, appealing to his avarice probably wouldn't work.

But what if they offered him something he couldn't otherwise get? Something Finch couldn't give him, something he'd have to get himself? Appeal to his vanity by offering him a rare delicacy. All demons had some sense of vanity, save for Persaids, who simply couldn't have it due to their abilities as a negative energy sponge.

He knew what he had to do. But how they'd go about it was another matter entirely. "I know what we can offer him," he finally said.

Giles and Faith both stared at him in curiosity, although Faith looked a tad more annoyed. "What?"

"My soul."

From the looks they were giving him, this was going to be an extremely hard sell.

4

By the time he actually landed in Asrahar, he was ready to kill something.

Now he knew the first class trip to New Delhi was a set up, a way of making up in advance for the shitty ride in the cargo plane. And shitty it was - it had no air conditioner, and it seats were little more than jump seats, little fold down ones that put your ass to sleep after ten minutes. And you couldn't walk around, because the plane seemed to hit every goddamn patch of turbulence it could find, so it was like being inside a very large salt shaker that a giant was constantly smacking because there was a clog in the top. Or something like that - it felt like his brain had been rattled straight out of his ears.

So when the clumsy plane squealed and screamed to a stop on the broken tarmac of what passed for the Rasiva airport (part of it had been destroyed when a surface to air missile meant for a plane misfired and hit the terminal; it had yet to be rebuilt, and functioned with half of it a regular, Third World style airport, while the other half was cordoned off rubble), he didn't see it so much as disembarking but escaping. Before the co-pilot/ cargo handler could come to the back, Logan had already lowered the hatch and got the fuck out of there.

The heat was sweltering, the air humid enough that it felt like someone was holding a damp rag over his face, but the worst part was the smell. It wasn't just exhaust from the plane, or the old but lingering smell of burnt wood, glass, chemicals, and flesh from the old airport explosion; it was raw sewage and death, the smell of a country that was dying an acre at a time. The sky was a hazy sepia, as if he'd arrived just before or right after a sand storm, The air was full of dust that he could taste - he paused to spit two times before he even left the tarmac - and he wondered if they had included a bandana in his luggage. He could tie it over his face.

He never would have gotten through what passed for "customs" if strings hadn't been pulled, but obviously they had. Someone in the government had slipped Muhammed's men a hefty payment, and because of that, they just looked at all his papers and rubber stamped them with the boredom of people given a job as a punishment. They made insulting remarks about him and journalists in particular, and Logan pretended he didn't speak the language so they could talk freely. As he left, he told them he didn't really care for other journalists either, but in their own language. They stared after him in slack jawed shock, and it made him smile. There, he felt a little better now - but he still wanted to beat the shit out of something as soon as possible.

He didn't think he'd find a taxi, as the "airport" was abandoned, save for the poor sacks of shit that had to be there whenever a cargo plane landed. But there was what passed for a taxi out front; a battered looking, pale blue Honda with a broken left headlight. The driver asked, in halting English, "You want ride?"

He told him, in his native tongue, that he did, and got in the cramped back seat. He pulled the book out of his knapsack to see where it was he was supposed to go. Someone - and he thought it was Abrams - had included reading material, namely a dog-earred French language edition of Albert Camus' "The Plague". Inside, acting as a bookmark, was a piece of paper that told him exactly where he wanted to go. He told the driver Hotel Eurasia, and he figured that that was probably one of the few hotels still in existence in Rasiva. With a name like that, it was probably a holdover from when England had colonized a good chunk of this part of the world, and probably was an old Victorian style edifice gone to seed. How had it escaped being bombed? Maybe Muhammed wanted one thing that just might appeal to tourists.

He put the book away and looked out the window at the sad, broken scenery, the wasteland of a landscape ravaged by war and grinding poverty. This was a country bound to break your heart if you started to care, so he made a mental note to try really hard not to, or he'd never be able to sleep again.

And yet, while he had braced himself for that, the explosion caught him completely off guard.


	4. Chapter 4

It was just beyond the car, maybe a hundred feet or so away, but it was loud enough that he jumped and curled his hands into fists, ready to move and fight, but the car barely swerved as a huge clot of dust and rocks hit it, rattling the glass. "Land mine," the driver told him, smoothly putting the car back on the cracked asphalt that made up Rasiva's main road. "Animals set them off sometimes."

He glanced out warily, but didn't see any sign indicating it was an attack. He was glad he hadn't sprung his claws and ruined his cover. "I've heard of that." Asrahar didn't have a huge land mine problem, but they did have enough out there, leftovers from a brief but nasty battle some twenty years ago. Not everybody who buried the landmines bothered to create maps or handy ways to remember where they put them, and many couldn't be found or recovered without being set off. Areas suspected of containing landmines were usually marked with a sign warning of such, but not all. Most were in the outlying areas, though; the closer you got to the heart of Rasiva, the less likely you were to find them. That was probably cold comfort to the mutilated and the dead.

The city eventually rose in the distance like a mirage, a clot of low slung buildings and reasonably modern office buildings (as of at least twenty years ago) with a faint air of dissolution and decay, an aura of wasted potential. It kind of reminded him of the one part of Sarajevo that was almost untouched by the war, but he wasn't sure of his frame of reference for that. Had he ever been to Sarajevo? And _which_ war?

There was quite a bit of traffic once they were in the city proper, and the newest car he saw was a model from three years ago. Still, if you had money, you weren't going to flaunt it, not here; you were just asking to get robbed.

The sidewalks were even more crowded than the streets, and begging was an actual occupation here, although Muhammed frowned on it enough that most tried to be subtle about it - no one wanted to be rousted by the cops, and risk disappearing. And because of the general poverty and limit of medicines and hospital stays to those who could afford it, there were lots of orphans, and the kids had a tendency to loiter for various reasons. Some did menial jobs for money or food; some prostituted themselves for much better money (but shabbier treatment); and some hung out in packs. The packs could pick your pockets effortlessly, even while seemingly begging for change. It was Dickensian in a way, although older kids could also kill you, so you had to be especially careful about walking down some of the narrower streets, which turned into dead ends and blind alleys before you knew it. Well, he personally didn't have to worry about it, but most people did.

The Hotel Eurasia was an eight story building, once white, now the color of smoker's teeth. It might have once had stucco on it, but now it looked like some kind of fungus had bubbled the paint from underneath.

They had included cash in Asraharan currency, so he paid the driver and tipped him well (in case he ever needed him again - a good tip made for a compliant driver), then got out into the polluted air of Rasiva. It smelled like exhaust and raw sewage, which was a minor step up from the airport.

The hotel lobby was so aggressively air conditioned that stepping into it, he felt like he had been thrown headlong into a cold shower. The lobby had a fake marble floor, plastered walls in a light saffron color, and a large front desk that looked oak, but most likely wasn't. The staff, all neat in appearance, wore dark navy uniforms that made them look vaguely like security guards.

He checked in easily, the reservations already made in his (fake) name, and took the aging but functional elevator to the seventh floor, where his room was. It too was air conditioned within an inch of his life, with saffron colored walls and a large screened window overlooking downtown Rasiva. He threw his knapsack on the bed, which was covered with the type of dreary floral patterned coverlet you could find in any American hotel, and looked over the city. It didn't look any better from up here; in fact, it looked much worse. He could see the battle scars on many buildings, and the flat, barren wastelands beyond. Somewhere in the haze surrounding the fringe of the city like a cloak was the jagged mountain range that separated a chunk of its border from Afghanistan.

Somewhere out there, Black Fire was content in the knowledge that they were untouchable. Logan wondered where the best place was to prove that they weren't.

5

Bren listened to the cars outside with their warring bass, and wondered if he should finally get up.

He glanced at the alarm clock on his nightstand, and saw that it was actually late in the afternoon and not the morning like he suspected. He should get up if only to go to the bathroom - his bladder was about to burst.

So he did that, and then wondered if he should take a shower, or go back to bed. He'd technically been in bed for two days, but damn, he was depressed. He didn't think that Bob's "death" would hit him so hard, but it had. Maybe he was coming back; it didn't seem to matter to his mood.

His stomach grumbled noisily, and he figured he should eat something and get going. Maybe, if he was ambitious, he could go back to the office tonight. Everybody else probably already had, and thought he was a big asshole for cutting for so long. He turned on his stereo to drown out the irregular thumping from the street, although he had no idea how long Ladytron would hold its own against the very boombastic people on the main strip. Many of them had stereos far, far more expensive than their cars.

He dug in his fridge, realized he really needed to go shopping as soon as possible, but he had some egg white product (he liked it better than "real" eggs - he had no idea why, except he suspected he was a philistine) that wasn't bad yet, as well as some passable "confetti salad". He heated up a skillet, threw in a pat of butter taken from a restaurant (if not for cafes and fast food places, he'd never have any condiments), and poured in the egg mixture before adding the salad. It was a lazy man's omelet, but he knew from experience that it was better than it had any right to be. His croissants had gone stale, but he knew after a few seconds in the microwave they'd be almost as good as new.

He sat down on the edge of his bed with a bottle of iced mocha, and wondered if he should bother to turn on the television. Bad shit could have happened; the world could have ended; a televangelist could have been elected to public office. Did he really want to know?

He had made the decision to check his voicemail when there was a knock on his door. Had someone from the office come to check on him? He quickly sniffed himself, but he didn't smell that bad, which was a bit of a shocker. Maybe his nose was stuffed up.

He hastily pulled on some sweatpants and threw on a t-shirt before looking out the spy hole. He had expected Angel, or maybe Rags or even Helga, but he did not expect who he actually saw.

He hastily undid his deadbolt as he exclaimed, "Holy shit, Saddiq? What are you doing here?"

Standing just beyond his door in a ramrod posture Rogue once described as "parade rest", was Saddiq. Since he was a solid six foot three, he had to look up a bit (okay, okay - so he was five eight, and not the six foot he claimed on every form ever given to him), but as always he felt the same mix of awe, attraction, and fear - he felt the same way about Sid that he did about Logan, but to a lesser degree. Since Logan was totally unattainable, that seemed to make his crush that much worse.

He didn't know if Sid was unattainable, as his sexuality was as vague and nearly nonexistent as his expressed emotions. Sid was sleekly muscular, enviably lean but no less solid for it, his caramel colored skin absolutely flawless. As he'd gotten older, his high, model like cheekbones and large hazel eyes appeared to stand out more in his narrow, handsome face, and it seemed to give him an almost vulpine appearance. His wavy black hair was cut short, but not in a military way, which was good. He was wearing black Converse sneakers, black cargo pants, a white t-shirt that clung to his torso in a very attractive fashion, and in the most surprising development, an open black leather X-Men jacket. While he felt partly attracted to him, part of him reminded him that Sid was a friend, and that was more important than any kind of fleeting lust. His better nature won out as it always did, but his libido remained waiting to pounce.

"Should I go?" Sid asked, as formal yet guileless as always.

He smiled, trying not to laugh. Sid just hadn't got a hang of dealing with people yet, and Bren wasn't sure he ever would. "No, you big jerk, come on in." He stepped back and held the door open for him, wanting to hug him but aware that Sid really didn't like to be touched. If you got within close proximity of him, you seemed to set off Sid's hyperactive defensive response.

Sid came in, glancing at him questioningly, as if not sure the jerk comment was affectionate. "Hey, wearing the big boy jacket. You in the X-Men now?"

He glanced at his coat, as if not sure what he was wearing. Since Sid was always so precise, and had little clothes, that couldn't be anything but a nervous gesture. (He didn't show up at the mansion with anything except those on his back; in fact, he had no possessions at all. All he had were things bought for him or given to him.) "I'm a reserve member, or a trainee - it depends on whether you ask the Professor or Mr. Summers. If we're really short handed or in big trouble, I guess I'm in."

"It's about time," he said, shutting the door. He considered locking it, but with Sid here, why bother? He didn't feel perfectly physically safe with many people, but the list was Logan, Sid, Angel, Bob, and Helga. No matter what hellish army burst through the door, he was sure each one of them could handle it without his help, and do it in a style bound to be brutal, awe inspiring, and scary as all fucking hell. (Although he might now have to revise Bob's listing.) "So, you still codenamed Saracen?"

He dipped his head, a terse form of nod that seemed to be his favorite. "Yes. I never thought of anything better."

"Good, I thought it was cool. Have a seat. Wanna drink?" He went out to his kitchenette to flip the eggs, as he could hear them sizzling loudly, but when he glanced back at the main room, Sid was still standing there, looking uncomfortable. Relaxing wasn't natural to him; being casual remained a foreign concept, in spite of the Hold Steady show he and Rogue took him out to. They did make progress every now and then, but Sid had been robbed of any childhood, even worse than he - son of a crack addict an and absentee demon father - had been. Sid had also had no choices in his life and nothing even remotely approaching freedom until Bob "bought" him and his "brothers" from the royal family of Rajan. It should have been simply liberating, but things were never that simple, and sometimes Sid seemed just overwhelmed.

He glanced around, and finally saw the loveseat, which he perched on the edge of like a person awaiting a intensive grilling from angry police. "Thank you, but I don't wish to impose further."

That made him snort a laugh, and kick open his fridge, which always had a loose door anyways. "I've got soda, bottled coffee, bottled tea, beer, orange juice, water, and an energy drink that's like cocaine in a can. Pick one."

He looked stricken. "Must I?"

He picked out a can of soda, and tossed it to him. Sid caught it easily. "There, I picked for you. So what brings you to Cali?" It wasn't a total surprise, as Sid had called him last week and asked if he could come visit him sometime. He'd said sure, but didn't actually think he'd ever come. Obviously something was up.

He shrugged, and studied the can, as if making sure it contained no snakes or arsenic or explosive bull testicles. "I … I needed to get away for a bit, I think."

Sid being this hesitant was just fucking weird. He turned the heat off on his eggs and stared at him. "What's going on? Is something wrong?"

He grimaced and set the can aside, unopened. "No … maybe. I don't know." When he looked at him, it was with a strangely sorrowful desperation. "I'm supposed to be happy, right? I'm an X-Man and I'm free, I'm no longer an indentured servant to my mast … to the royal family. So why aren't I happy, Brendan?"

Oh god - a philosophical discussion. It was too early - and he was too sober - for one of those. He wondered if Sid would be offended if he snuck into the bathroom and chugged a quick beer.

* * *

The new Los Angeles headquarters of Wolfram and Hart was close to where the city merged with the strip mall hell that was the San Fernando Valley. It was a tall tower of metal and glass, just like the last one, and also like the last one, it had secret entrance points that no one else knew about. Unless, of course, you knew the old ones.

Secret sewer tunnels led to the "sub-basement" of the building (which also didn't technically exist), access points for creatures who didn't have cars with necro tinted glass, or just couldn't afford to be seen leaving here. It wasn't like you could just walk in there, though; the hatch was only accessible if you had the right spell, or opened it from inside the building. So Angel waited, and was prepared to wait longer, but it was still daytime, and the day wasn't overcast enough to keep vampires from hurting - he was hardly here a half hour before the hatch opened, and someone started coming down the ladder embedded in the sewer wall.

Before they could grab the hatch to close it, he sprung from the shadows and grabbed them by the ankles, yanking them violently down into the tunnel. It was a lanky, long haired vampire, who was stunned to be jumped by another. As he got up, Angel triggered the spring loaded stake hidden up his sleeve, and stabbed it in his chest. He dusted with the stupidest look on his face.

Angel went up the ladder, expecting trouble, and found none. He must have been alone, which was somewhat suspicious, but actually not; after all, Wolfram and Hart were arrogant enough to think this would never be a problem.

He headed unmolested through the beige and white corridor, and took the elevator up to the lobby, as he wanted to see the new big cheese, and knew to do that he'd have to get their attention first. _That_ was the fun part.

He stepped out into the busy lobby, which had a lovely mosaic tile floor featuring the pictures of a wolf, a ram, and a heart on a bronze background that had a spiral appearance to it. There was a huge semi-circular lobby desk made of polished mahogany, manned by two different receptionist, with a security guard standing behind them against the wall, under the big brass letters spelling out "Wolfram & Hart". There was no chance of mistaking this for a Bob's Big Boy, was there?

As soon as he started walking past the desk, one of the receptionists said, "Sir? Sir! You can't go back there without checking in!"

"They know me here," he said dismissively, heading for the bank of elevators at the back.

The security guard, a large man who looked like he used to be a professional hockey player before they kicked him out for steroid abuse, suddenly stood in his way. "Where do ya think yer goin'?"

"Through you," he replied, and sucker punched him in the gut before kicking him across the lobby. He probably broke a couple of his bones, but it was unavoidable.

The second the guy hit the wall, a half dozen security guards seemed to materialize out of nowhere, surrounding him. They had batons and tasers, and were looking at him like a piñata full of gold. "You have no idea who you're messing with," one of the big ones warned.

Angel couldn't help but smirk, and let his vampire face emerge. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing to you."

He spun into a side kick that took out the charging guard, and shot out a hard elbow that nailed a guard who tried to get him from behind. A taser crackled as another jabbed it towards him, but he grabbed the man's wrist and snapped it, ripping the weapon away. He turned and blindly stabbed the taser into another guard as he kicked another in the face, sending him falling backwards.

Guards seemed to swarm out of nowhere, and now some of them were vampires too. Cute - fighting fire with fire, as well as trying to mob him. Too bad it wasn't enough - didn't they know he was mighty experienced in facing off with unruly mobs? Angelus used to consider it a palate cleanser.

One of the vamps tackled him, but he sprung the stake from his sleeve and dusted him before they hit the floor. The other vamps tried to pile on, but he used a sweep kick to take them down before jumping back up to his feet, and that's when someone threw a net over him.

But he had been expecting that, and used a slight modification - borrowed from Logan, admittedly - to solve that problem. Hidden in his left sleeve, where normally there would be a stake, was a spring loaded knife, upside down so its super sharp blade was pointing up. He triggered it, and sliced through the net easily, staking a vampire that tried to grab the knife.

Someone grabbed him from behind, pinning his arms to the side, but he jumped up and kicked an incoming Human away, then used his vampire strength to flip over the head of the vamp that got a hold of him. He landed on his feet behind him, and as the vampire spun around, he staked him as easily as if the vamp was committing suicide. He slashed the knife through the air, and decapitated another vampire as he kicked another Human away, clearing himself a space on a lobby floor now covered with bodies and ashes. More demon guards had been brought in, big guys with chains, and he grinned savagely at them, running his tongue over his fangs. He'd never admit it to Giles, but this was kind of fun. "Who's next?" he asked, glancing around as they flanked him and began to slowly close in as a circle.

Suddenly a man shouted, "Stop this at once!"

The guards hesitated, and slowly retreated back in a circle as a relatively handsome Asian man in an expensive suit came forward. He looked familiar, which was kind of surprising, since he was dead. "Angel, come with me. We've been expecting you."

Angel returned to Human face, staring at the late Gavin Park with curiosity. He smelled a bit like a ghost, yet not totally unlike a zombie. But he didn't look like a zombie. "Who's we?"

"You'll see." He jerked his head back towards the largest elevator, which opened as if on cue. Gavin turned towards it, and Angel followed, while the demon guards looked on with obvious disappointment.

Alone in the elevator with Gavin, his smell became no clearer. "So you're dead," he said, by way of starting conversation. It wasn't the best way to do it.

Gavin seemed to think he was commenting on him still being around, and shrugged. "I'm under contract."

Still curious about what he was, he sprung the knife out of his sleeve and slashed at his midsection. The knife and his arm went clear through him, with a feeling like he'd just stuck his hand in box full of liquid nitrogen.

Gavin scowled at him. "Don't do that."

So he was some kind of ghost, but an odd one; there was some sort of solidity to him, although not much. Maybe that allowed him to touch and manipulate things to a certain degree. "Sucks to be you," Angel said, snapping the knife back in its brace.

"Isn't that something you say to a vampire?"

He shook his head. "See, if you had that sense of humor when you were alive, I may have liked you." Gavin raised an eyebrow at that, and Angel had to admit, "Okay, no, I'd never have liked you."

Gavin hardly seemed moved by the statement. The antipathy was mutual, and apparently strong enough to survive death. As if riding in an elevator with the quasi-ghost of a lawyer who hated him (and wasn't he killed by zombies?) wasn't surreal enough, there was a Muzak version of "Somebody To Love" coming from the speakers overhead, and this trip up - the elevator _was _going up, wasn't it? - was taking forever.

Finally, Gavin broke the tense, odd silence. "What were you hoping to accomplish with that display down there?"

"I was a distraction. My friends are planting bombs outside. This place should be ready to come down right about now. Good thing you're dead."

He looked at him askance, and after a moment he snorted disdainfully. "I knew you were lying the moment you said you had friends."

Finally the elevator came to a smooth stop, and the doors slid open on a large floor with red carpets. Gavin went ahead, and when he realized he wasn't following, he paused and look back. He was just ever so slightly translucent at the edges. "Are you coming?"

It was probably a trap. Would they try and kill him now, or simply capture him? It was possible he'd be issued a vague warning and let go, all in service of whatever plan they had going right now. Not that it mattered; he was good for anything.

So far, the plan was working perfectly.

6

The best place to look for rumors and start them was a bar. Luckily, one of the few legal ones was in the hotel.

Asrahar was not, by definition, a Muslim nation, but drinking alcohol was so frowned upon that it was generally illegal and mostly done in secret. Types of "speakeasies" thrived, and they weren't always easy to find, especially for the few Western tourists who bothered to come around here. They'd bring obvious, unwanted attention.

But the bar downstairs, safely in the confines of the Westernized hotel, had a small, clean bar with lots of legal booze, and a small, plump bartender wearing a red vest. He also sported an impressive comb-over that was nearly an architectural miracle. There weren't many people in the bar drinking, and the couple sitting in a back booth looked like they were employees of the hotel enjoying a late liquid lunch.

The bartender was named Ahmed, and he talked to him a bit, admitting he was a journalist trying to find out how the recovery was going. Ahmed shrugged and seemed noncommittal, but once he got a bit more comfortable with him, he admitted it wasn't going well.

On his third beer, after asking for good nightspots around here (there weren't many safe ones for Westerners - what a shock), he inquired about this group he'd heard of called "Black Fire". Ahmed's posture stiffened, his brown eyes widened, and Logan caught a whiff of fear coming off him. He lied blatantly, claiming he'd never heard of such a thing, but Logan knew he had a hit here. Yes, he knew them, and yes, he was terrified. Was this a lead he could follow, or could he just let Ahmed spread the news that the Western journalist in the Eurasia was asking questions no one wanted to hear?

He then saw a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, a streak of dark red moving towards the front of the bar, and someone from the kitchen shouted, "Catch that thief!"

Ahmed moved a lot faster than his bulk indicated, and got the thief by the ear before they could slip out the door, dragging them protesting back into the bar. It was nothing more than a kid, the grimy, cast off Western style clothes suggesting a street kid. "I'm gonna break your head open, gutter trash," Ahmed promised, then looked up nervously at the Westerner. Logan watched him warily.

He didn't want to get involved, but the problem was, Chandler might. Decisions, decisions.


	5. Chapter 5

Oh, what the hell. Well meaning but ineffectual Westerner, right? "What did the kid do?"

The kid was maybe ten, just starting to look gangly, eyes wide and desperate in a dark face. "I'm hungry, I just -" he began, before Ahmed yanked up hard on his ear, cutting him off.

"Shut it, you little rat," he spat, dragging him towards the back.

Actually, not a he - a she. But dressed like a he, hair cut ragged and short to the scalp, wearing a dark red shirt that was just big enough to be concealing. She was attempting to "pass", probably because it was much easier to be a boy here than it was to be a girl. He was probably the only one who knew besides her because he could smell the difference, although pretty soon she wasn't going to be able to hide her gender that well from others. That helped him decide, mostly because he wasn't sure what would happen to her if they discovered she was a girl, and not just a typical gutter rat. He turned towards Ahmed, perched on his stool in a way that clearly suggested he would intercept him if he tried to walk past. "Let the kid go."

Ahmed got a look on his face that seemed to say "_Stupid bleeding heart asshole_". "Little thieves like this are always trying to steal from the hotel. They're vermin."

He could have decked him with a single punch, but Chandler wouldn't handle it that way. So Logan reached into his pocket, and pulled out a wad of colorful bills, which he threw on the bar top. "I'll buy it. Let 'im go."

Ahmed looked at him, then at the money, and repeated the gesture. After a moment's hesitation, he shoved the kid towards him and scooped up the money in a single movement. "You could buy better," he grumbled, returning behind the bar.

He meant he'd buy what the kid had stolen, but Ahmed must have thought he meant he'd buy the kid. The kid who stood there, stiff as a board, must have thought the same thing. Her eyes were full of cunning, like she was waiting for a chance to make a break for it. "You wanna earn some money, kid?"

She looked at him warily, like a scared rabbit. "I don't -"

"I'm lookin' for a guide," he interrupted, before she could say something offensive.

That caught her up short. "Huh?"

"A guide, someone to show me around the city, the parts the stupid white people ain't supposed to see. Think you're up for that?"

She didn't trust him, that was clear, but she was intrigued - especially when he pulled out the Asraharan equivalent of a twenty dollar bill. Her eyes glowed with avarice. "And what else?"

"Nothin'. Although, if you take me where I want to go without the "you can't go there" bullshit, there's more where this came from."

He let her get mesmerized by the cash, then held it down to her, where she ripped it out of his hand faster than Ahmed. Twenty bucks would actually let her have some decent meals for a change, although not for long. It occurred to him that he was leading himself into a trap, that he'd be unable to divorce himself from guilt about what happened to this kid, but that was probably something to worry about later.

She shoved it in the front pocket of her jeans, and asked, "So, uh, where is it you wanna go? There's a whorehouse -"

"Not what I'm interested in," he told her, gulping down the rest of his beer. He slid off his stool, and said, "C'mon, let's walk and talk."

He led her through the hotel lobby, and ignored the hostile looks the staff gave her until they were safely outside. Once there, they barely got any glances from passers by, and the girl remained tense, ready to bolt if things went south. "What's your name, kid?"

She hesitated. "Ali."

He didn't expect a real name, so he wasn't surprised. He wondered if It was at all related to her real name, or just one she chose at random. "Okay, Ali, what I'm lookin' for is where the other Westerners go, where they hang out. I know it can't just be the hotel bar."

She looked a little confused, brow furrowing over large charcoal colored eyes. "The missionaries generally stay near the church …"

He shook his head, puling a cigar out of his coat. The smoke would cover up some of the more overwhelming street smells. "I don't mean those guys, and I think you know it. I mean the ones no one's supposed to talk about, the ones who pretend they ain't here. I think you know who I'm talking about."

From the fear coming off her, yes she did. "Are you stupid? Almost no one ever sees them and lives to tell about it. I don't care how much money you pay me, Mister - it isn't worth dying for."

He lit his cigar, took a deep puff, and let the scent of the smoke blur the other scents in the air. "You said almost. You know someone who has seen them but isn't dead yet?"

She shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, glancing around as if appealing for help. "I … I dunno. He lies a lot."

"Take me to him. I'll be the judge of that."

Her look was dubious, and not very friendly. "Who are you exactly?"

"Logan Chandler, reporter for the Toronto Sun newspaper. I'm also loaded." He let her see some more cash before shoving it back in her pocket. "Do we have a deal, Ali?"

She seemed torn, divided between the urge to earn easy money and the urge to not get involved. But the fact that she was taking so long to make up her mind was actually a good sign - she couldn't quite bring herself to say no. Finally, she said, "When I wanna go, I'm gonna go, okay? No strings."

He nodded in agreement, wondering how old she was. She looked ten, but being a girl passing for a boy, she was probably older. "No strings," he concurred, and offered her his hand to shake. She did, and gave him a briefly funny look. She squeezed his hand, and might have been surprised at how hard the bones in his hand seemed to be.

He had no intention of getting her mixed up in this anyways. All she had to do was point him in the right direction, and get the hell out of the way.

There were just some things that no kid needed to see.

7

He'd hoped to put some salsa on his eggs, but when he open the jar, he saw little lumps of grey fuzz in it. Why hadn't anyone warned him that salsa could get moldy? Damn, that was depressing. He had little packets of taco sauce among his collection of assorted condiments, but it just wasn't the same.

Brendan sat down and ate his eggs while trying to help Sid sort out his problems. That was hardly a small order.

First of all, it was easy to establish that Sid wasn't quite sure what happiness was, as the idea of happiness beat into his head when he was growing up was service to his master to the best of his ability - that was it. That was the only thing that was supposed to make him happy. All else was frivolity beneath a warrior, a weakness to be avoided and abhorred, along with other emotions, which were all things that could be exploited by an enemy. "Jesus, it sounds like you were raised Klingon," Bren commented, shaking his head. What did he know about Rajan? It was an island principality, kind of like Bahrain but a bit more restrictive, and that was about it.

Sid looked at him curiously, cocking his head like a puzzled parrot. "Klingon?"

"Forget it. Did you ever get the idea that this was all bullshit?"

That stare continued, not so much uncomprehending as not getting him personally. "It's not bullshit. Emotions can be easily exploited."

"No, I mean …" he sighed wearily, took a gulp of his beer, and switched the topic to how things were going at the school. They were going as they always did, which meant just a tad weird for him.

Bren knew from experience that some of the mutant kids disdained the Eden kids as "not really mutants", since they were all genetically engineered, and all had the same ability (well, they had armor as skin - it wasn't really an ability or a power; it was just what they were). While Sid was the oldest of the Eden kids, they all looked to him as an unofficial leader, and yet there was a division among the Eden kids, as the Rajani ones were all male and one race (Arabic), while the Eden kids pulled out of Canada by Logan and Bob were from a wide mix of races, were both male and female, and while raised to be a nearly invincible army as well, they still had a bit more freedom than the Rajani ones, as well as less of the brutal, emotionally divorced training that they'd had. Some of the meaner kids referred to the Rajani kids as "mini Terminators". They were so remote, so detached, they were a bit scary, and the fact that even the six year old had been drilled on more self-defense techniques than anyone else knew existed just added to the drama. But none of that was their fault - how could they help being created and raised by sadists who saw them as cannon fodder and a means to an end, not Human beings? They lucked out that there wasn't a language barrier, since the kids were taught English along with Arabic, although they did have a tendency to speak English with a British accent. (Why? Even Sid didn't know.)

But Sid didn't necessarily like being the "leader" of these kids. Yes, he was a natural, but he was also a natural loner, as personal attachments were frowned upon among the Rajani guards. (Okay, that was a bit more Vulcan than Klingon.) Now he had to deal with his subordinate "guards", whom he could simply order around, and these strange kids who weren't his guards, and wouldn't necessarily take his orders. Then there was the whole issue of being in the big stew of teenage hormones, which no amount of crushing repression could totally squash. Apparently Bobby got mad at him for flirting with Rogue, which really puzzled him, as he wasn't sure _how_ to flirt. He had to tell him not to worry about it, Bobby was probably being pissy because Rogue pretty much flirted with everyone. Unless she had recently absorbed Logan, then she cursed a lot and became sullen, and complained about the lack of beer.

And then some of the Eden kids resented him, because Sid was treated a bit differently than the rest of them. Even the mean kids were deferential around him, and of course now he'd been accepted by the staff as a fill in for Logan when he wasn't around to teach the self-defense class. But the fact that he was a substitute teacher won him no points; the fact that he fought some deranged saboteur to a standstill, even with a grievous injury, was what got him the respect. Even the bitchy kids had to admit that that was just fucking impressive. It put him in the rarefied pantheon of people who ran towards danger as opposed to from it, and was spoken about in the same hushed tones as Logan's attack on the soldiers who invaded the school.

But Sid didn't get that that was impressive. That was his job, what he'd been designed for, what he'd been prepared for all his life. He was supposed to fight until his opponent was defeated or withdrew; his life was irrelevant, and totally beside the point. In a fight, he never thought about his own safety, as it wasn't among the goals drilled into his head. Scott had been working on that, trying to get him to realize that he had to think about his own well being, but he was still puzzled about the why of it as long as he got the job done. There were others ready to take his place if he died; he wasn't special.

This was the part about Sid that made him want to beat his head against the wall until it was bloody. He _was _special - he was Saddiq. There was no replacement for who he was. (The number his "trainers" did on him! Bren hoped he'd meet them someday, so he could beat the shit out of them.)

"The one time I think I was happy was during the fight," Sid offered hesitantly. "I felt good; I was fulfilling my duty."

Bren shook his head and rubbed his eyes. "Okay, there's so much wrong with that statement. You don't have a "duty" anymore, Sid - you're a free man. You can _do _whatever you want, not just what someone told you you were only good for. Okay? Genetics isn't always destiny. Hell, look at me, I'm half demon. I should be sucking someone's brain out through a straw or something."

The puzzled look returned. "I thought you were a peaceful type of demon."

He waved his hand in the air, repressing the urge to fling his empty beer can at him. "Not the point, Sid. The point is you can do whatever you want now. You don't just have to be a kamikaze bodyguard."

"But I'm proud of my skills."

"That's not …" he gave up with a sigh, and stood up, taking his plate out to the sink. "Okay, you know what? Let's go talk to Angel. Maybe he's better at this kind of thing."

Sid stood, wariness returning along with his parade rest posture. "What type of thing is it you're trying to do?"

Bren let his plate drop in the sink, and hung his head, reminding himself that Sid could kick his ass and barely move while doing it. Demon or not, he was totally outclassed. After he was certain he wasn't going to lose his temper, he told him, "That's a damn good question. I'm not sure anymore."

He wasn't going to be hanging out that therapist shingle anytime soon, that was for sure.

* * *

The new head cheese of the Wolfram and Hart L.A. branch was a man named Harrison Ames, a man he'd never met before, but oddly enough, he felt like he had.

It didn't help that he was yet another middle aged white guy in an expensive but conservative Prada suit, who exuded an air of smug, evil contentment. Ames didn't even make a show of standing up when he and Gavin came in; he simply looked up from his oversized, ornately carved desk of some endangered rainforest wood, and set aside a piece of paper and a quill pen dipped in blood.

He was about fifty years old, with short, well coifed white hair and his skin pulled so tautly across his face you could easily make out the contours of his skull, and his gray eyes seemed ready to bulge out of their sockets. Too many facelifts? Or was he born while being fired out of a cannon? "Ah, my predecessor," he said, with false amiability. "You know, I was expecting your visit sooner…"

"Can the bullshit," Angel snapped, taking the folded newspaper out from his inside coat pocket and throwing it down on his desk. It was a copy of the L.A. Times from two days ago, open to a story on the "Loveless Killer"'s latest victim. "You think I can live this long and not know a ritualistic murder when I see it? This is one of your clients, isn't it? Not in my city. This stops now."

Ames looked down at the paper with an imperious raised eyebrow. The window wall behind him showed the broad red sky and bruise colored clouds of a Los Angeles sundown, the smaller buildings surrounding the Wolfram and Hart tower shadowed to the point where they looked like tombstones. Angel considered kicking him through the window, but he was Human, and that probably would weigh on his conscience. After a moment's hesitation, Ames decided not to bother lying, and glanced up at him like he was about to order lunch. "And what will you do if it doesn't?"

Bastard. Well, to run a place like this, you had to be a stone cold one, and frankly if he had said it would stop now, he'd never have believed him. "The next victim will be your client. I suggest you get him out of here for his own safety, otherwise you may not have a retainer to collect." He spun on his heels and stormed towards the door, not sure where Gavin had gone or why he should care.

"Stay out of our business, Angel, and we'll stay out of yours," Ames said in a deceptively friendly manner. It was a silky threat, almost cheerful.

Angel shot him a final evil glare before slamming the door behind him. Ames's receptionist was on the phone, and more than happy to ignore him, so she didn't notice that he had slowed his walk and kept an ear cocked towards Ames's door, his hearing extended as far as he could allow. Vampire hearing wouldn't really qualify as "super" - Logan had proven in the past that he could hear better - but he was above a Human, especially when he was pushing himself. And he thought he heard Ames say, over the telephone, "Deploy them."

Was that the friendly welcome for the old head of the firm? Shameful.

He rode the elevator down to the lobby, working hard to suppress a smile. How dumb did they think he was? Perhaps as dumb as he knew they were in their strangely tenacious arrogance.

Because the sun was down, he walked out through the lobby, getting evil looks from the guards now on duty, and he gave them an insincere smile and Hollywood wave as he walked out the smoky glass doors and into the newborn night.

The sky was the odd blue of twilight, not quite dark enough to seem like true night, but not bright enough to hurt. As he strolled past approaching lawyers and interns, some paused and stared at him, giving him a wide berth. Had they circulated his picture among the employees? He wasn't sure if he should laugh or be offend.

He had just hit the sidewalk when he caught a scent on the wind; it was a smell like corruption, wet fur, and cigarettes. It was also vaguely familiar. The well trimmed shrubbery around the grounds rustled, and he'd felt the eyes watching him long before they moved. So who did Ames "deploy"? He hated waiting to see.

Finally he sensed someone behind him and turned to see a man dressed like a Goth, with a twist of fake dreads in his long black hair, and an all black wardrobe with a ripped Bauhaus t-shirt as the centerpiece. Angel made a show of looking him up and down slowly, a smile creeping up his face. "Sorry, but I don't give autographs."

The man spit on the sidewalk before him, just missing his boots. "Asshole," he said, with a heavy French accent. "You bloodsuckers are always so arrogant."

Angel sensed the others surrounding him now, still in Human form, but clearly itching to transform. It was the rest of the Loups Rouges, the European werewolf cult. He had a feeling they wouldn't get scared off so easily, especially since they killed one of them. Well, technically Brendan killed one of them with a silver arrow, but he wasn't about to let them know that. "I have every right to be arrogant .I took out one of you fleabags, didn't I?"

He snarled, an inhuman noise more canine than Human, and it was echoed by the five werewolves behind Angel. "For Yves," he growled, and said the words that suddenly triggered all their transformations in a frightening blur or speed, clothes ripping and falling away as bones snapped and reset themselves, skin boiling as fur sprung through skin and muscles lengthened with a sound like raw meat being dragged across a rough floor.

Angel did the only thing he actually could. He vaulted over the nearest transforming wolf and ran for it, across the broad swath of lawn on the far side of Wolfram and Hart's building, and made for the industrial area just beyond them. He didn't dare look back, as he knew the wolves were already running after him, and would catch him as soon as the pain of rapid transformation faded. Normally he wouldn't even bother to be concerned about werewolves, but the Red Wolves were different - the control of their transformation also allowed them to retain some Human consciousness within their werewolf brains. This allowed them to hunt in a pack and not tear each other to pieces; and they would know the only way to kill him would be to rip his head off. They would try.

They wouldn't succeed, but the least he could do for them was give them a good chase.

8

Normally it wasn't advisable to follow a street urchin into the heart of an unfamiliar city, into the twisty back alleys towards a place where foreigners were never seen alive, but even incognito, Logan couldn't be most people.

He knew he should have some anxiety about this, but anxiety was impossible to fake well if at all. Besides, he figured Chandler would try and pretend to be nonchalant, macho asshole that he was. He'd try and bluff his way through all this.

He got the kid to talk, mostly to avoid answering question about himself, but the kid was as evasive as he generally was. "Ali" admitted to being an orphan but wouldn't talk about her parents at all; she also said she was twelve, a bit older than he expected, but it made sense.

The guy she was bringing him to was named Amir, and the more run down the area they were in, the more nervous she got. As well as being a notorious liar, Amir ran at least one of the gangs, and he apparently wasn't very nice. (What a shock.) She advised him to bribe the "guardians" immediately, as buying safe passage was the only way to go about it. She asked him several times if he really wanted to do this, and he was picking up the vibe that she was afraid he would be killed. It probably wasn't personal at all; she just didn't want to be the accessory to a crime that warranted the death penalty.

He got lots of funny looks from the natives, people with hot and hollow eyes glaring at him from the shadows of run down hovels that could have been post-apocalyptic New York City tenements - or a relatively middle of the road slums in New Delhi - and he couldn't say he blamed their knee jerk hostility. The West ignored them unless they wanted something, and propped up a leader who was a nightmare to his own people, simply because he was more open to their policies. Politics sucked, and it was rarely the politicians who suffered.

A warren of alleys that reeked of shit and piss finally gave way to what appeared to be an open dirt courtyard, made muddy by recent rains. Buildings like British row houses in slow collapse ringed the courtyard, making it a natural dead end. There was barely enough space between the homes for a cat to slip through, and laundry hung on ropes suspended between windows, neighbors sharing a line. Walls were the color of baked adobe, cloudy white, and an infected sort of yellow. Some of them showed deep cracks and fissures from the last earthquake, and two of the buildings looked like they were leaning against one another at an angle, two drunks miraculously holding each other up.

The remarkable but not surprising thing was all the faces glaring at him from behind windows, looking down at him from second floor balconies, were children. Maybe were teenagers old enough to be adults in at least a technical sense (and he saw at least one teenage girl holding a baby), but there were many of the gutter rats, kids barely in double digit ages who had banded together for safety and survival.

A group of seven teenage males sauntered out from the shadows of an open home, its door lost to time and violence. They ranged from maybe fourteen to nineteen, from five six to six three, from skinny as a rail to growing plump on bathtub rotgut. Their eyes reflected nothing but a simmering, aimless rage.

"What the fuck you'd bring that back for, Ali?" One of them - presumably the leader, said, chewing on the end of a hand rolled cigarette.

Ali shifted nervously from foot to foot, and he could smell her sudden fear. They hadn't asked for money; perhaps that was bothering her. "He's a reporter, he wants to talk to Amir. He's doing a story on the -"

"Like we give a shit," the boy snarled, getting right into his face, so close that Logan could feel the heat from the cigarette tip. He could smell a miasma of smoke - both cigarette and opium - booze and body odor, with a vicious tang of testosterone. "You know you ain't leaving here, right?"

Logan met his gaze with studied boredom. He didn't want to hurt a kid, but acting like a thug was going to make it infinitely easier. "I am. And we can do this the easy way or the hard way. Your choice."

The boy on the right hand side of the leader, a tall drink of polluted water with a narrow, rodential face, snickered coldly. "Ooh. The Yank thinks we've never seen the same stupid ass action films he has."

"I'm not a Yank, dumbass. I'm Canadian."

One of the plumper ones scoffed, flicking his cigarette butt on the muddy ground near Logan's feet. "Big fucking difference. You all bleed the same."

"Not necessarily. You can take some cash and move on. This doesn't have to be ugly." This was their final warning. He could fight them and keep his cover, as long as he wasn't injured too severely, or unleashed his claws. Canadian Intelligence must have been worried he'd be unable to avoid fighting, as they'd written into Chandler's back story that he had been an amateur level kickboxer in college. Cute. But did that mean they didn't trust him _not_ to get in a fight?

Ali had slipped away out of fear as the circle closed in on him, and one of the boys grabbed him from behind, while the leader punched him right in the stomach. It actually hurt - which _really _pissed him off. He snapped his head back, shattering the boy's nose, and he kicked the leader right in the balls, hard enough that he'd probably be lucky to keep his testicles. Yeah, it was low, but Chandler probably wasn't above it.

As the leader dropped to his knees, grabbing his balls and making a high keening noise in the back of his throat, the boy with the broken nose fell backwards, landing in the mud with a wet plop. Someone rushed in from the side, but he met then with a hard elbow that sent them skidding down to the ground, while another boy pulled out a large switchblade and slashed at him wildly. He heard it rip his shirt even as he jumped back, but before the boy could do much else, he grabbed the boy's extended arm and yanked him to the side, swinging around behind him and bringing the boy's arm up until he had him holding the knife up to his own throat. The boy struggled, but Logan locked his other arm in a solid grip, and pressed the blade up tight against his throat, just beneath his Adam's apple.

He heard the familiar sound of a gun being cocked, and turned, bringing the boy with him like an inadvertant Human shield, to see a lanky boy, with a face so badly mutilated that his left eye was hidden somewhere beneath a mass of scar tissue, aiming a handgun at him. It looked like an American military issue from a couple of years ago, something with some stopping power, and from the way the boy held it, he knew how to use it. "I don't want to hurt anyone," Logan told him. "But I'm not gonna let you hurt me either."

Someone started clapping languidly, sarcasm heavily implied, and he glanced up at the second floor balcony of the row house directly parallel to him. Standing up there was the oldest looking kid yet, probably twenty, lean and tall, wearing only loose clay colored linen pants. His exposed chest was flat and hairless, with a light crisscrossing of old scars across his torso, the lingering remnants of old knife wounds. A joint dangled lazily from the corner of his mouth, and it didn't even shift as he sneered. His hair was the color of driftwood, and cut rather sloppily, as if he'd done it himself with a slightly dull hunting knife, while his dark eyes were glazed by drugs, although not so much that they hid a basic animal cunning that you rarely saw outside of starving hyenas. He looked like nothing, a wisp of a boy with rough hewn features, but Logan knew this one was dangerous - those were the eyes of a killer, and there weren't enough drugs in the world to hide it. This had to be Amir.

"Not bad, journo - if that's what you really are," he drawled with a kind of cold amusement. "You have five seconds to tell me why Vik shouldn't blow your fucking brains out."


	6. Chapter 6

But he wasn't supposed to be himself right now. He was supposed to be Logan Chandler, last of the gonzo journalists, well meaning but slightly delusional in the fact that he had yet to realize no one actually cared about the truth anymore. He would be afraid of a gun; he would fear death. But luckily, he was also macho enough to hide it.

"I'm exposing Black Fire to the world and shutting them down," he replied, never looking away from the scarred kid with the gun. It was his one visual concession to "fear".

For a long moment, there was nothing but silence, everyone - including the scarred Vik - just staring at him. Then Amir burst into laughter, a deep, mocking sort of laugh that seemed to echo off the buildings. As soon as he got a hold of himself, wiping tears from his eyes that weren't technically there, he leaned against the rickety railing, and said, "Oh man, that's funny. Yer gonna take on the others, huh? I should put ya out of yer misery now ... although it'd be fun to watch what they do to ya."

The others - he said it as though it should be capitalized and underlined, perhaps put in italics. _The Others_. It was somehow telling that they didn't call them Black Fire.

But now it was time for Chandler to show his macho pedigree. "If you're trying to scare me off, don't bother. I've had the fucking Taliban throw grenades at me. If I was a chickenshit, I wouldn't be here. Now, is he gonna lower the gun or what? This kid stinks."

That comment elicited various chuckles, and even though he still had the knife at his throat, the kid squirmed. "Hey! I do not."

"You do so," one of his ganglier companions replied. "You ever heard of soap, Gheet?"

"Fuck you," he replied sullenly, as even more of his friends laughed. Well, he did smell a little like a tire fire outside a rendering plant.

Vik glanced at Amir, and at his almost imperceptible nod, lowered the gun. Logan let the kid go, but at the last second shoved him away and ripped the knife out of his hand. "Hey," the kid protested, stumbling briefly before turning around. "That's mine!" A thin thread of blood trickled from an almost invisible cut on his neck. Yeah, it was a mighty sharp knife.

"No, it's mine now," he corrected, folding the blade closed and shoving the knife in his pocket. This was like dealing with a potentially dangerous wild animal (or your basic teenager). You had to be just assertive enough to gain their respect, but go overboard and you were just asking to be attacked. Likewise, if you were too acquiescent, they'd rip your throat out. So he had to walk a very thin line here. If he was too aggressive, he'd be shot; if he was too subservient, he'd be shot. At the end of the day, he might get shot anyways, but he'd keep his cover longer if he could hit the happy medium.

The kid glowered at him, and he simply waited for him to try something, keeping his look bland but his eyes sharp. He would let the kid decide how this was played, but he was tacitly letting him know that he would respond in force if he tried anything. If the kid hadn't figured out yet that he was no threat to him, that was his loss.

After a tense moment, the kid looked away scowling, kicking at the dirt as he walked away. Amir said to the few other gang members left standing, "Show our ballsy white guy inside, huh?"

So he had a pass - for now - and was being led into the lion's den, but this was by no means over. They could decide to simply suss him out, then kill him. Not that they'd succeed, but then he'd have to decide how much of his cover he could afford to blow. It would all depend on if Amir was lying to him or not, and what good his information was.

But, all in all, he just hoped he wouldn't be forced to kill any of them.

9

The reason Wolfram and Hart had probably selected this area for their new L.A. headquarters was probably due to the fact that it was quiet. An industrial "park" was their nearest neighbor, a collection of white washed, tin walled cracker boxes used for various manufacturing and storage facilities, and only during the day, so demons of all sorts were free to come and go at night without fear of being seen by someone who shouldn't see them.

But, on the negative side, the demons in Wolfram and Hart had to travel farther for a midnight snack.

Sculpted lawns covering the easy access to hell gave way to asphalt, paved expanses upon which the tin buildings rested, little heat sinks that still radiated the heat of the day even now. Even with air conditioning - and it was probably a law that death traps like this had to have them - those places had to be unbearable. Could they pay anyone enough to stay and work there? You'd think not, but he knew he was probably wrong.

He could hear the click of claws on the pavement behind him, the rasp and warmth of fetid breath, and knew the Red Wolves were right behind him, almost within pouncing distance. He was a little surprised he'd made it this far, but he supposed an entire wolf pack behind you was a great incentive to haul ass.

Although he'd walked into Wolfram and Hart and attacked them alone, he did that because he knew that's probably what they were expecting him to do. He'd be so afraid of risking any more people in his life, his attack would be solo. But the truth was, he didn't actually come alone. Oh sure, he went _in _alone, but that was totally different. He knew they'd probably try and kill him, so he brought back up that was waiting here for him, hidden but watchful. And since he was unable to guess the exact nature of what was coming after him, he brought along a couple of women who were probably every demon's worst nightmare.

Faith emerged from one of the alleys quickly and quietly, punting the lead werewolf across the grounds and straight into a warehouse wall, which belled slightly inward on impact. "Oh man, are these those Eurotrash werewolves you told me about?"

Naomi just shot out a ball of electricity that hit the pack of remaining wolves and sent them flying, filling the night air with the acrid scent of burned fur. "They all look the same to me," Naomi said, sparks dripping from her hands.

"It is," he confirmed. "It looks like they got themselves a new member since we last saw them."

"What is it with people and stupid cults?" Faith wondered, stepping out in front of him. Naomi joined her, and it was a little embarrassing, as anyone who saw this scene would think he was hiding behind them. He wasn't, but it was better to be behind them than in front of them if there was some fighting to be done.

Angel shrugged. "Everybody likes to belong to something."

The massive electric shock should have scared off the wolves, but of course these were semi-sentient, pissed off werewolves, so they weren't as smart or as easily frightened off. They got up snarling, but kept their distance, obviously trying to figure out a strategy. Angel suggested one. "Get out of here while you can still walk."

They ignored him; he expected them to. They collected themselves into a group and glared at them with acidic yellow eyes, thin skin pulling back over sharp ivory teeth, their growls synchronized into a single demonic rumble. Angel sprung the knife from his sleeve, and even though it wasn't silver, he knew if he cut their heads off they'd die. That was a general rule, with a couple of obvious exceptions.

Faith glanced back at him, noticing the knife. "That's new."

"I figured I should be prepared for anything."

"Fair enough. But does Logan know you're stealing his bit?" She flashed him a smart ass grin before turning away, facing the wolves once more, fists raised and ready to strike.

"Hey, he has three apiece. I just got the one."

The wolves looked at all three of them in a predatory fashion, but seemed unable to move, not even their alpha male willing to commit and risk a kicking or a zapping. But suddenly they lifted their muzzles as one, sniffing the air, and even though he hardly wanted to copy them, he subtly sniffed the air as well.

He got the scent at about the same time they entered visual range. "Whoa, saw the flash," Brendan said, approaching from behind the wolves. "Thought you might need - oh shit."

The wolves turned as one and sprang at Bren as a group, but before they reached him, the guy with Bren grabbed him and spun Bren behind him, shoving himself into the path of the werewolves. He looked vaguely familiar, and Angel recognized the leather/high impact Kevlar jacket he was wearing as much like the one Scott wore. A friend of Bren's from the X-Men? Why didn't he recognize him? "Don't -" he began, but it was too late. The lead werewolf had launched itself at the young man and fastened its teeth on his raised arm -

- and the teeth snapped, just broke off all at once, hitting the asphalt with a sound like falling glass. The werewolf looked shocked, and the man ripped his arm out of the wolf's now toothless, bleeding maw, leering down at him evilly. "Is that all you've got? Damn, that's sad."

Another wolf tried to launch past him, but he snapped out a leg so fast it was almost a blur, and side kicked the wolf square in the muzzle, sending it flying back with the not so gentle sound of broken teeth. "Nope, that's not gonna work either. Try again." He wasn't scared or intimidated in the least - in fact, he seemed to be on the verge of laughing, which was a little unsettling.

Faith had started forward, but Angel grabbed her arm and stopped her. "He's an X-Man. I think he's got it." He finally recognized him: it was Saddiq, who looked more like a teenage boy the last time he saw him. But now he looked more like the man he was becoming, whip thin but leanly muscular, and almost cruelly handsome, with an evil grin as sharp as a razor blade. Two wolves tried to get around him, but he kicked one and grabbed the other by the muzzle, forcing his hands inside its jaws. "Good dogs don't bite," he said, snapping its jaw with a sickening crack that made Angel wince.

He started to pick up an odd smell from the werewolves, one kind of like vinegar. It was fear and panic, and from the way their tails drooped, they were at a perfect loss what to do. They couldn't bite Saddiq, nor get past him, and if they turned around, they'd get zapped by Naomi, and pounded by him and Faith. Suddenly they were in a no win situation, and didn't know what to do. So they did the only thing they could - they ran away.

Saddiq turned to follow, but Angel told him, "Let them go."

He turned back to fix him with a dark glare. "They could go after civilians."

That made him scoff. "With no teeth and broken jaws? I doubt it."

"They'll heal," Faith pointed out. "Regeneration's part of the package."

"But not quickly. They probably won't get their teeth back until they return to their Human form. Besides, I only wanted to scare them off, and we did that in spades."

Bren, in his spiky Brachen form, looked over Saddiq's shoulder, and commented, "I guess it's a good thing we showed up when we did."

Angel stared at him in mild anger and disbelief. "Actually, no. I can't believe Giles told you where to find me."

"Umm, he didn't. When we got to the office, I noticed the computer was still on. So I checked the browser history, found an address scribbled on a post-it in the trash, and put two and two together."

Damn it! Bren was just too good at the detective thing for his half-assed operation. He noticed Faith looking at him expectantly out of the corner of his eye. "Well, you gonna introduce us or what?"

"Faith, Naomi, this is Saddiq. Saddiq, this is Faith and Naomi."

All the strangely unsettling glee was gone from his face, replaced with his usual unreadable expression as Saddiq stepped forward and gave them a small, respectful bow before offering his hand. "Pleased to meet you. Are you a mutant as well?"

Faith shook his hand, and gave him a sly smile, eyes twinkling. She thought he was cute, and perhaps a little funny, but Angel knew her well enough to know it was his brutal fighting style that she found most attractive. Could it hold a candle to Logan's, though? "Naw, I'm a Slayer, which is a real long story. So what's your power? I couldn't tell."

"My skin is impenetrable. Save for adamantium, but somehow I doubt there are werewolves with adamantium teeth."

"One would hope not," Angel said, as Naomi slipped on her gloves. When Saddiq shook her hand, he mentioned that Bren had told him all about her, and he was honored to meet her. Angel couldn't figure out if it was because Bren had talked her up, or if it was because she was a fellow mutant.

He had no idea why he was here now, or why Brendan wanted him to see them, but Angel was reasonably certain he could fold Saddiq into his plan. Well, if he was willing to play weak and inexperienced.

But why wouldn't he? Being an X-Man seemed to indicate that you were on some level a team player.

* * *

You could tell a lot about a person by their décor.

For instance, you could easily discern where their priorities were. The inside of Amir's place looked like it was furnished from a junkyard, with a broken down couch and a rattan chair that was starting to unravel at one leg, while there were some large throw pillows scattered across the floor, stained with spilled beer and bong water and vomit. But there was a nice television on a rickety stand, with an old but not badly used Nintendo 64 with four connected controllers and about a dozen game cartridges scattered about.

Amir sat on the rickety chair, and Vik, gun tucked visibly into the waistband of his pants, sat on the floor, as did a second bodyguard sitting just outside the archway leading into other rooms (he could only see cupboards from his vantage point, making him think it was a kitchen), and Logan figured out that was the protocol. So even though he pretended he was going to remain standing, he eventually sat down amongst the floor pillows, trying to keep the newly stained ones far from him.

The bodyguard by the kitchen pulled out a fat hand rolled joint and lit it and took an experimental puff before bringing it to Amir, who took a long, deep drag off the joint, holding in the smoke for a very long time. After finally exhaling a large cloud of grey smoke towards the water stained ceiling, he held the joint out towards him, the look in his eyes amused and vicious. This was a test.

So he took it and took a deep drag off it. Pot didn't effect him - presumably he'd had it before - but he could still feel just a little bit of it for a moment. The pot you could get in Asian made the pot you could get in the States seem like oregano; it was the difference between "near beer" and a genuine Irish stout. It was the real deal, the stuff that could knock even the most dedicated Western pothead flat on his ass. He knew if he didn't have his healing factor, he'd probably be reeling, so he figured he'd take long pauses before speaking, like he was trying desperately to remember how to speak.

He offered the joint to Vik, who glared at him with his one good eye, and then handed it back to Amir, who gave him a nasty little grin. "So why do you call them the others?"

He snickered, shaking his head at him like he was an idiot. "Don't cha even know they ain't human, journo?"

"I know they're mutants, if that's what you mean."

"Filthy freaks," he commented, spitting on the floor before taking another deep drag off the joint. Only after he exhaled did he add, "Hate the fuckers. Things come too easy to 'em."

He found it hard not to laugh, but managed not to. He knew Amir's drug use and the fact that the pot smelled like a rancid skunk would make smelling his veracity a bit more difficult, but not impossible. (Still, he might have to burn his clothes after this. He had a feeling he'd never get the pot stench out.)

A little more questioning and a few more tokes later, Amir told him something useful. "You're not the only white guy lookin' for 'em. There's a bunch of 'em around Naher Canyon, probably searching for the old mujahadeen hideouts, but the mujahadeens aren't around anymore. They're some kinda military assholes, but not CIA."

Naher meant river. Kind of a bland name, but probably functionally descriptive. "How do you know?"

Amir snickered again, looking at him like the dumbest damn thing he ever scraped off the bottom of his shoe. "'Cause the fuckin' CIA built that big ass bunker for 'em. If they were CIA, they'd know where it was."

For some reason, this tripped something in the back of his mind, burbling up a fact he didn't realize he knew. "Oh right. The CIA armed and aided the mujahadeen against the Soviets."

"No fucking kidding, man. Somewhere in Naher they say there's a cave that isn't really a cave - it leads to a bomb proof bunker full of weapons and shit, a place one of the warlords lived out of for a long time before they packed up their shit and went to Afghanistan. The rumors have it the freaks have made it their own, ya know, but I don't know how they could have found it without getting their asses killed."

"It's protected?"

He shifted in the chair, making it creak ominously, like it was about a half a pound away from collapsing into a collection of loose fibers. "Prob'ly not, not in a conventional sense. It's the old traps, the ones the mujahadeen left behind. D'ya really think they'd deactivate 'em once they left?"

Of course; a security precaution. If there were lots of caves in the Naher - and he assumed there was - one of the most effective ways to find your quarry if massive air bombing didn't flush them out was a cave to cave search. And some of them would have mines or even cruder booby traps for the first soldier who headed inside. Most of them would be well hidden and far from obvious.

And the funny thing was, Amir had just proved he was right about mutants. Some things did come easily to them; certain mutants could find that cave in no time at all, without risking anyone's life. And Logan knew he could find that cave easily, simply by smelling where all the people had gone. Not a problem at all.

There was the problem of the Organization though, who must be the military guys Amir had seen (and he got no sense that he was lying). Did they have mutants with them? They must have. He'd have to take them out carefully, unless he wanted to blow his cover.

Then again, would it matter? They might wonder about the team being taken out, but the Organization would blame Black Fire for any deaths. And as long as he cleaned up Black Fire before their back up arrived, he wouldn't have to worry about them ever being the wiser. He took another toke and passed the joint back. It was now just smoke in his lungs, much more stinky than his usual cigar. "How many military guys are we talking about? Are they American, Russian, British ..?"

He continued to give him a look like he was totally beneath him, which was fine by him. If he honestly thought he was that far above him, he wouldn't consider him a threat. It probably also helped that he was getting increasingly stoned. "Fuck if I know. Why don't you go ask them yourself?"

"Tell me where they are and I will."

Amir assessed him with heavily glazed eyes, his lids half-lowered and sleepy. But there was still the look of a predator lurking beneath the drugs, something sharp that couldn't be blunted. "You know, I bet you will. But you don't think I'm gonna give ya something for nothin', do ya?"

He reached into his pocket - slowly, as Vik hardly had a contact high - and pulled out a fistful of cash. "How much do you want?"

Amir's reactions were slow. It seemed to take a full minute for his eyes to study the money and scud up towards his face, his smile growing at the same pace. "It doesn't work quite like that. Oh, we'll take the money, but I also want a little bit of your blood."

Logan wasn't terribly surprised that more gang members, ones he hasn't beaten up, appeared clogging all the doorways, blotting out the light bleeding through the window. He glanced around slowly, still trying to keep up the stoned pretense, and counted at least a dozen men, ranging from about fourteen to surely eighteen.

Yes, he could take them all. But was it worth?

* * *

As it was, he decided it was best for them to beat him a bit.

They claimed at first that they'd be taking him out of their "home" through a secret exit he couldn't see, but he knew they were lying even before they put the bag over his head and tied his hands behind his back. To play the fear card, he told them in a semi-joking manner that his paper wouldn't pay a cent for him. They didn't disbelieve him.

They led him out, and he let himself stumble a couple of times, although oddly enough he didn't naturally and he couldn't say why. Was this some obscure Bob power sense? He had an uncertain but nearly palpable idea of the space all around him.

They took him out towards a car with a leak in its brake fluid line, and someone who smelled like Vik punched him in the stomach while wearing brass knuckles. Then the others closed in and threw blind punches, but Logan let himself drop, as it was easier to convince yourself you kicked a bone somehow than with a punch - up close and immediate, you knew or you didn't. Besides, his gut hurt from the blow, and he actually coughed up a bit of blood before whatever internal damage was healed.

Some of them hurt themselves, but were derided as wimps by the others. He went limp, pretended to be unconscious, and they went through his pockets before picking him up and shoving him in the back of the car. (There was much complaining about his weight, but there must have been some honor amongst them, as they let him keep the knife.) Someone - it smelled like Amir's other bodyguard - drove for a while, a relatively smooth road turning rutted and bumpy, and then finally he stopped, got out, and unceremoniously dumped him in the dirt.

Logan waited for a minute after he drove off before he started to move. He listened hard, but heard nothing around him. So, had they dumped him like trash, or dropped him off for Black Fire? The curiosity was just killing him.


	7. Chapter 7

After listening for a solid thirty seconds (he couldn't rely on his sense of smell, as the burlap bag on his head reeked of old food and piss), he popped his claws on one hand, the one twisted towards the ropes around his wrists. He pressed the blades against them until he was able to yank the ropes apart. Then he sat up and ripped the hood off his head, retracting his claws.

He was in what looked like a shelled scrubland, with dusty, dead dirt the color of landfill mud, and scraggly trees that looked like they were pretty much born dead. But the smell in the air was odd; it had just a hint of dirty water in it, and as he strained his hearing, letting it go to full, he could hear the gentle slosh of water against rocks in the distance.

He climbed to his feet and started walking towards the source of the noise, and after about a fourth of a mile, he started to see a break in the horizon. Yes, just like he'd hoped - it was a canyon. Naher Canyon. They'd tossed him out, into the belly of the beast.

There was no cover, so he started walking to the gap that made up the canyon, and figured he'd find some soon enough. It would be fun to see the Organization again.

Not for them, but he'd enjoy it.

10

Back at the office, he filled Saddiq and Brendan in on the plan.

"Are you out of your fucking mind!" Bren exclaimed, jumping up from the couch and flinging his hands in the air. "You can't do that! How do you know that this won't go totally bugfuck and turn you into a killing machine?"

Angel grimaced, not wanting to admit there was a chance of that. A slim chance, but still it couldn't be totally dismissed. "We do have a back up plan to keep this from spiraling out of control."

"How good is it if you know the plan?" Saddiq asked with genuine curiosity.

Angel had to admit that was a fair point, but not out loud. Before he could respond, Giles appeared in the doorway and admitted, "I actually have a contingency plan or two. But for obvious reasons, I'm not sharing them."

Saddiq nodded at the sagacity of that plan of action. "And I'm here. I can help. There's no one I can't fight."

"Logan," Bren pointed out.

He had the good grace not to even be briefly offended by that. "Okay, with that exception."

This was a tough one. He knew Saddiq could take almost anything - what happened to the werewolves made that pretty clear - and in spite of his age (Bren assured him he was eighteen, but he could pass for younger), it was clear he had fighting skills to burn. But having Bren involved in all of this was bad enough.

As it was, it was Giles that bought him some time. He'd been studying Saddiq since he'd come in, and finally said, "I'm aware you did well tonight, but fighting demons isn't for the unprepared, even with someone with your … abilities."

Saddiq met his gaze evenly, not surprised by the statement. Saddiq seemed to come to the table with upper class British unflappability, which might make for a funny stand off between him and Giles. "Demons are not unlike another species of mutant, Mr. Giles. You need to determine what will hurt them, what will not, what their weapons are and how best to take them away. For instance, the werewolves. I've never fought any before tonight. But it was instantly clear their weapons were their teeth, so I took them away."

Just like that. Damn, he could see why Scott had promoted this kid to reserve X-Men status, but damn if he wasn't just a little bit scary. Giles continued to look unimpressed, which was impressive in its own right. "Next time you might not have the time to make such an assessment, or make the correct one. Your mutation might not be enough to protect you."

Saddiq remained implacable in the face of the warning. "Perhaps not, but my training should be. I know twenty six ways to kill a man with my bare hands - or feet, no real matter. Some are bound to at least stun any demon."

Giles raised an eyebrow at that statement. Puzzling over the number twenty six, Angel started counting the ways he could kill someone with his bare hands, and then stopped, as it was rather morbid. "And these X-Men taught you that?"

"No, my basic training in Rajan taught me that. Although admittedly they just taught me the twenty five. Logan did teach me the twenty sixth, and I felt like a fool not knowing it. It was perfectly obvious …"

Giles shook his head, frowning in disapproval. "This is honestly beyond the pale. Training children as weapons? Appalling."

"Is that not what Watchers do with Slayers?" he replied, again with more curiosity than any other emotion.

"Whoa," Faith commented, laughing slightly. "Pretty boy shoots and he scores."

"Now wait just a minute," Giles interrupted.

Saddiq looked at Faith, who was sitting on the opposite end of the couch, and gave her an odd look. "Pretty boy?"

"That is not a valid comparison," Giles continued, looking as angry as Angel had ever seen him. "Slayers are born, not made. They will be magnets for demons whether they are trained or not. Training is as much for their protection as anyone else's."

"Which is also true of most mutants. So where does your problem lie?"

"Okay, let's dial it down a little," Angel finally said, aware that this argument could go on for a while, and get distressingly personal. "I'm all for letting you in on this, Saddiq, but if we let you in, you must follow my and Mr. Giles's instructions to the letter - no deviations. Is that clear?"

Saddiq nodded once. "I can take orders."

"Excellent. That's a place to start."

Giles gave him a look that suggested as soon as they got a moment alone he was going to chew his head off, but that was okay. Angel had actually been hoping he could have Logan around as part of the back up plan in case everything went wrong, because he already knew the kind of damage he could do to him. While Saddiq didn't have blades, he was essentially Logan's protégé, someone also made solely to be a weapon, and that would probably be more than good enough.

The kid was frightening, but that was okay. If everything went wrong, he'd have to be.

* * *

The sky was moving towards full night, a deep indigo just starting to sparkle with a handful of bright, pristine stars. The sky seemed big here, with no implied borders or light pollution to impede it, and the temperature had dropped precipitously. He could almost see his own breath, which wouldn't be very good for covert surveillance, so he hoped the temperature stayed level until he could make it down to the compound.

He was still on the very top of the canyon, which was a bit of a bitch, as the Organization seemed to have a team down in the canyon, around the bend on the westernmost side, next to the sludgy ribbon of river that sliced through the chasm like a road to nowhere. He judged it to be a least four hundred meters down, a steep drop by anyone's estimation, and while he was sure he could climb down using his claws in place of climbing axes, it would be relatively slow going, and probably not as quiet as it should have been. There was the added problem that surely they had advanced equipment - night vision goggles, possibly hand held scanning units - that he didn't have. They were probably also walking the length of the canyon, searching for the bad guys, so there was a slight chance they'd spot him before he spotted them. There had to be some easier way into the canyon, but right now he couldn't see it. He didn't want to wait a day either, although he knew if he waited long enough, most of the patrol would fall asleep.

He was surprised by hearing a noise far behind him, footsteps that weren't nearly as silent as the person probably hoped, but the wind was blowing in his direction and he recognized the smell. Damn it.

He crept back quietly, and obviously wasn't seen or heard, because when he grabbed them and put his hand over their mouth, they smelled shocked, and stiffened under his grasp. "It's me, okay?" he whispered in Ali's ear. "But there are people around and I don't want them to hear us, so please be quiet. Okay?"

Ali nodded, and he let her go. She turned to face him, looking a little annoyed, but no longer scared. "People? What people? The others?"

He decided to play dumb. "I dunno. All I know is they're in the canyon. You can see their flashlights." Actually they were relying on their night vision goggles to get around without attracting undue attention, but that was something she didn't need to know.

She studied his face closely, looking deeply puzzled. "They didn't hit you in the face? I thought Dhal kicked you in the face."

He scowled at her. "He missed and got me in the throat instead. Look, why are you here?"

"I was afraid they'd killed you! I didn't want ... I mean, I didn't want you to die."

Didn't want to be incriminated. Also, he might have some money or something the others had missed. He didn't actually blame her for this callous attitude, as sometimes you did what you had to do to survive. There were probably a few situations worse than being a street kid in Asrahar, but not many.

"Well, I didn't. I've been beaten worse before; I once did a story on corruption in the LAPD. Frankly, your friends are a bunch of pussies."

"They're not my friends," she replied defensively, and once he turned away, she muttered, "You're a tough old buzzard, ain't ya?"

Old buzzard? Well, to a twelve year old, thirty was probably ancient.

She followed him back to the edge of the canyon, and while not always visible, he was able to point out some shadowy figures down below. "See? This is why you need to get out of here. They're armed, and somehow I don't think they're friendly."

She squinted down at them a long time, the bright silver sliver of the quarter moon doing her vision little good at all. Although certainly his better than average vision gave him the edge in most situations, he had to consider the possibility that her poor diet - and it was undoubtedly poor - gave her poor night vision, no matter the circumstances. "They've got guns? Then they're not the others. They don't carry guns. They don't have to."

He stared at the side of her face, her profile extremely gamine and feminine. Maybe they were just willing to believe she was a pretty boy. "You've seen them." He was gobsmacked, and couldn't help but chuckle. "You put me through that for nothing."

"No," she protested, face flushing in embarrassment at being caught in a lie. "It's just what I've heard Amir say. He said we should avoid them and never pick their pockets, 'cause they could kill us without raising their hand."

It was possibly true; it was also possibly fudging. But right now he didn't care that much. He knew what he needed to know. "Good enough reason for you to go back, kid. I got this one."

She looked at him askance. "You know the way down into the canyon then?"

He stared into her big brown eyes, and couldn't help but smirk. Yeah, sometimes precocious kids were good for something. "This is gonna cost me extra, isn't it?"

"I'll take a digital camera if you don't have cash."

Oh, she was good. He liked her. "We get back to my hotel in one piece, I'll give you all the cash left on my account. Lead on, Gunga Din."

Her look was bewildered. "Who?"

"No one. Come on, show me."

And she did. It was about three hundred meters from where he was, a place where there was a steep slope, into which a winding but passable path had been worn into the grade by years of travel. As they climbed down, she started shivering violently - mostly due to the cold; some due to the sudden realization of what she was doing - so he checked his pockets to make sure they were clean before taking off his coat and giving it to her. She looked a bit suspicious at first, but then she snatched it away like she was afraid he was teasing her with it, and slipped it on. It was absurd how small she looked in it, it swallowed her like a burqa, but she stopped shivering, and seemed to move a bit faster.

To give her credit, she was very quiet on the trip down. Then again, she was a semi-professional thief, and that was simply a survival skill. You learned it, or you weren't a living thief for very long.

It seemed to take the better part of an hour, but finally they reached the canyon floor, the noise of the river much louder than he would have thought. It didn't move very fast, but the sound was concentrated within the rock walls, as was the chill air coming off of it, and the smell of various effluviums dumped in the river from a variety of sources. He bet the EPA would have a field day here.

The Organization encampment was still on the other side of the river, but if necessary he could swim it. He patted Ali on the back, and said, "Thanks kid. I'll meet you back at the hotel as soon as I'm done here, okay?"

She looked up at him, clearly surprised. "You think I'm just going away now?"

And there was the problem with precocious kids. Why couldn't he just get the good without the bad? "Kid, these are dangerous people. You don't want to be caught here, especially not with me."

Her eyes narrowed, and it looked like she was squinting to make out his face. "You're not really a journalist, are you?"

"Yeah, I am, that's why everybody hates me. Now stop arguing and get moving." He pointed towards the path, and up at the top of the canyon, but she sulked for a moment, scowling at him. Finally, she got going, although he didn't turn his back on her until she actually started climbing upwards. Of course he heard her stop shortly after he turned away from her, but he didn't care. She'd soon lose him in the dark, and would have no choice but to go.

He moved quietly along the shore, looking for a good spot in the river where he could swim across and not be heard or spotted, nor dragged farther downriver. Admittedly he was so heavy with all his adamantium that it'd be hard to move him, it wouldn't be impossible. Some undertows had incredible strength, ones even he couldn't fight. The fact that this seemed to be a placid river on the surface meant nothing. He seemed pretty placid too, at times, but he knew he rarely was.

He sat down on the bank, and unlaced his boots, then pulled off his socks and shoved them deep inside the boots before tying the laces together tightly. He had no choice but to put up with wet clothes, but he didn't have to put up with squishy boots that would allow any alert soldier to hear him first. He stood up, letting the grainy, damp dirt squelch beneath his cold toes, and swung the boots for a moment, gaining momentum, before tossing them across the river. They made it, landing on the far bank with a small, dull thump. He quickly but quietly slid into the water, in case any soldier heard it and checked it out - they'd be unlikely to look in the water for something they heard on land. Just in case, he let the current carry him about ten meters downriver before swimming across.

He was glad he had a healing factor, not only because of all the human waste and other stuff surely filling this river, but because the water was so cold he would have sworn his heart stopped from the shock, but only for a single beat. He took a deep breath and started swimming towards the opposite shore, which was just a dark wall that seemed to shimmer like a ghost under the pale moonlight.

He kept his strokes short and even, making hardly any noise at all, and even though his clothes threatened to weigh him down, he made great time and started to feel warm enough that he knew if he was a regular Human, he'd have to worry about hypothermia. But he wasn't, so he didn't.

The soldiers didn't hear his boots hitting the dirt, as no one came, and he was able to pull himself up on the opposite bank, into the bitter cold night air. He was shivering now, and he decided, since there was no one around and no one coming, he stripped off his wet jeans and wrung them out before putting them back on. He did the same thing with his shirt, which was pretty torn up from his near fight and eventual beating, but he decided to keep it until he could steal a decent shirt from another guy. But at least he wouldn't squelch when he walked.

He put his socks and boots on, which felt that much warmer just because they were dry, and started heading towards the Organization encampment. He moved quietly, his hearing and sense of smell stretched to their limits as he tried to settle on his quarry long before they were even aware they weren't alone.

He began to wonder if he could kill in cold blood - again; without any mental gang raping - when he caught the scent of cigarette smoke in the air, and heard the rumble of men's low voices, two soldiers talking amongst themselves. He focused on their words, and eventually made out their conversation. They were talking about one of the men's last trip home; his parents lived on a ranch in Texas, and they were - surprise surprise - a bit nutty. Listening to them, he figured they were kids, rookies, homesick and new at this. He didn't need to kill them; they'd scare very easily.

He snuck up on them easily, they never heard him or suspected him. He pounced on them like a mountain lion might, slamming a flattened palm straight into the base of the skull of the one on the right, while grabbing the one on the left so hard around the throat that he couldn't cry out or breathe. He also bent him back at a sharp angle, about an inch or two away from snapping his spine, so he'd be very unwilling to reach for a weapon, and find it nearly impossible to fight back.

Oh, he groped for the weapon in his holster, but by that time his friend had crumpled to the ground, so Logan just pulled it out of his holster for him, and pressed it flush against his temple. He stopped struggling as soon as he cocked it. "I know who you are," he growled, deliberately making his voice gravely. "And I know why you're here. I also know all your tricks, 'cause I used to be one of you. Now if I let you go, you best answer me and speak quietly, or the last sound you hear will be the bullet that kills you. Got it?"

He nodded as best he could with his oxygen being cut off and his spine being pulled to the breaking point. Logan added an extra, threatening squeeze before easing up on his throat. But he still kept a grip on his Adam's apple, just to let him know he could cut off his voice in a very permanent manner if he had to. "Now tell me where do you guys think Black Fire is around here."

The kid attempted to squirm, to try and get a look at him, but couldn't. "We don't know," he wheezed. "Maybe the other end of the canyon, we can't find them here. They're using our tech against us."

"How is that possible?"

"They have some. They know us too."

Weird, but not really surprising. "What kind of mutants do you have with you?"

"None. We couldn't risk it."

Okay, now he was lost. "I don't get that. You think they'd just defect and join a cult?"

The kid now reeked of fear, sour enough to make him wrinkle his nose in disgust. "It's not really a cult; it's a splinter group."

"A splinter group of what?" But even as he asked it, he had a sinking feeling in his gut, and remembered his dream on the plane, seeing himself in pseudo-military gear, telling himself _'You know this'_. Oh god, did he?

"The Organization. They're part of us … or they were. They went rogue and started freelancing."

"Who's their leader?" He knew he always said never ask a question you really didn't want to know the answer to, but sometimes circumstances compelled you.

"We're not sure. But we think he goes by the code name Timebomb."

"He's dead."

"The first one, yes. He's a … copy."

Holy shit. He _did_ know this; he knew it all along. Now what the hell was he going to do about it?

* * *

This was such a pointless exercise, Boyle wondered if they were simply bait.

He hadn't been with the Organization long, just three years after getting bounced from the SEALS for a lame ass reason (what was "excessive force" anyways? Legally, the term was nebulous), and he still got irritated by their vague instructions sometimes. Of course in the military you got used to it - "need to know" and all that jazz - but it still got under his skin. And as a deeper than black ops group, there was no one he could appeal to or complain to about anything. Just suck it up, or face a superior who may hate your fucking guts. If he or she wanted you gone, it could be like you never existed.

They were supposed to stay in pairs at the very least, but he couldn't stand Brown, his current partner on patrol. He was an ignorant redneck who seemed to have the need to spit every five minutes, and a need to talk about what he'd do to the "muties" every ten. He'd heard it all already, it was old, he needed to move on, wrap that five watt brain around another topic, if he could at all manage it. Boyle had figured that Brown had neither had a woman, a bath, or encountered a mutant in a genuine combat situation. It was generally true that the ones who bragged about it the most had it the least.

He found a nice quiet place to have a piss, eschewing the river as it would make more noise. He was supposed to have Brown with him, they were supposed to remain in pairs, but fuck it. He told him he couldn't piss with some guy watching him, but the truth was he just wanted to get away from the idiot.

They had been in this canyon for two and half miserable days, seemingly from one side to another, and found no trace of these rogue operatives. Boyle had figured they knew they were coming and skedaddled, but the Commander was of the opinion that they were hiding, that they had found too good a position to move. That seemed hinky in the logic department, enough that Boyle decided to read between the lines: _they're not moving because they're not afraid of us. _If that was honestly true, what did that make them? Again, the only thing he could think of was bait.

He finished and zipped up, then searched his pockets for his smokes. He was giving them up, mainly because they could give positions away, but right now it was an excuse to stay away from Brown that much longer. He found one and stuck it in his mouth, now searching for his lighter, when he heard the noise right behind him.

He didn't know what the noise was, it was soft and strange, but before he could turn around someone grabbed him, and jammed something in the side of his neck. He felt a short, sharp shock, and then he couldn't feel his body anymore. It was a paralyzer; it had to be, since it didn't feel like he'd been injected with something.

He slumped back bonelessly into the arms of the man who had assaulted him, and he smelled of alcohol and something else, something dry and unpleasant but not necessarily awful. He wanted to see him, but he could only move his eyes to encompass his surroundings. "I know you're scared little grunt," the man said, and his voice had a hint of an accent. Spanish? "But just think how lucky you are. You'll be with us when we destroy this canyon and all your team dies. Better to die later than now, yes?"

He was fighting it as best he could - at least the paralyzer was on Human level charge; mutie level would have killed him - but he could feel his mind shutting down. Damn it, he was right. They were bait.

But if they were the lure, what was the snare?


	8. Chapter 8

11

Logan knocked the kid out with a punch to the side of the head, right behind his ear. He went instantly limp, and Logan let him slide out of his arms and collapse to the ground next to his buddy. He'd have a headache when he woke up, but he'd be fine, which was probably an awful thing - he should kill him now, if he had any pity for these poor grunts. Did the Organization actually think _any _of these Humans would stand a snowman's chance in a hell dimension against Timebomb?

If it was Timebomb. He wasn't completely convinced of that. Yes, exploding people - and only being able to effect biological matter - that fit. But blowing up the entire body? That was new. It also didn't explain the strange scent of the blood, or the fact that he always had to be within visual proximity to do it. It was _like_ Timebomb, he'd give them that, but it was off in many key ways. Perhaps he was working with someone else … or maybe the "copy" had been altered somehow. Maybe his powers had been enhanced.

But the Organization would know that. So why send a bunch of homo sapien greenies out here with guns and K-bars? They were sitting ducks, cannon fodder …

Oh shit. He had to get out of here.

He heard a strange noise, farther down the canyon, but audible enough. It wasn't exactly a "whoomp", but it was a familiar enough noise. A teleporter.

Logan pulled the sidearm from one of the fallen soldier's holsters, a Tec-9 that was fully loaded (even if it didn't have much in the way of stopping power, especially from a great distance), and was torn between heading for the noise or retreating. He decided to move a safe distance from the soldiers (no need to draw attention to the unconscious, who were in no position to fight back) and try to get the notice of the teleporter. It would give him a clear shot.

He moved back down the canyon, and he heard the noise of the teleporter bouncing around the canyon. It sounded like he or she was in one spot for maybe a minute, then moved on to another spot. What were they up to?

The wind shifted, the cold air biting into his front as opposed to his back, and he caught two things almost at once, both equally disturbing. There was the scent of a person that was familiar, but familiar only to his olfactory memory, the segment of his mind that they couldn't erase or fuck with. There was a subtle difference, but he still knew it, and he knew it enough to be disturbed. This scent, showing up now, was not good.

The second scent had a sharp chemical tang, and was familiar in a different way. This one he knew instinctively - it was the scent of plastique. Lots of plastique, because usually he couldn't smell it until he was within fifteen feet of it; as explosives went, it didn't smell that much. And with all the mines and various other traps in various caves …

He was about to shoot in the air to get the 'porter's attention when they dropped into existence on the bank across the river, almost swallowed by darkness save for their bright white and red pineapple patterned Hawaiian shirt, which seemed incongruously festive here and now. But as soon as Logan saw him, the knowledge clicked into place, the name he was searching for. "Nomad?" he asked, sure that he was dead. But that would mean this was a copy too. And Nomad could teleport all over the world; he had no limit to his abilities, as long as he had enough drugs to numb the pain.

He looked across the river at him, squinting as if he couldn't quite make him out. He then dropped what looked like a fragmenting grenade and winked out of existence.

Yeah, he was right - these fuckers were bringing the whole canyon down.

Perhaps because he'd been recognized, the explosion started a few seconds after that. They started farther down, the boom and roar of the explosions sounding like mythical dragons, and there was no time for anything else. Logan threw himself into the river as the explosions moved in a series of ragged lines down both sides of canyon, deafening him as the air filled with deadly projectiles, splinters of rock and shards of metal. As he surfaced for air, several struck him in the side of the face, wasp stings of pain that made him taste blood as a shard ripped open his cheek, and a sliver of stone lodged in his left eye, blurring his vision. The buffeting force of the explosive concussion was trying to shove him down into the churning water, which was becoming a dangerous maelstrom in the wake of the destruction.

As he fought farther down the river, hoping to get to a clear area (it had to have an outlet beyond here), he saw a moving shadow in his vision, and looked up in time to see what looked like an entire cliff falling right towards him.

It was too fast and too large, there was no time to get away, but he dived under the water as the shadow of it blocked all the light, and he slashed out with his claws as he tried to push himself in the opposite direction, against the surging and inconstant tide. It was too big for him to cut into reasonable chunks, coming too fast to matter at any rate, but he was hoping he could get clear of it so he didn't end up trapped beneath it.

Large chunks of rock pelted down on him, and he felt a sizable one crash into his skull, a dull but overwhelming pain that sent him sinking down into total darkness.

* * *

He knew the dawn was near, not just because he could smell it but because he was tired. It didn't happen all the time, but sometimes the rising of the sun brought on a wave of exhaustion. Angel didn't know if it was peculiar to vampires alone, or if other mainly nocturnal demons felt the same way. It wasn't like he could take a poll.

As he got out of his car - currently a black '68 GTO convertible that Bren helped him buy from an auto auction (it was seized by police during a drug raid - what fun to traffic on other people's misery, but it was still a pretty cool car) - he got the oddest sense he was being watched. He tried to look around surreptitiously as he made a show of searching his pockets, having a subtle peek at the chameleon stone in his coat pocket. It was starting to turn color, shading to a pearl pink, and he knew this was probably it.

He leaned over and popped open his glove compartment, reaching into it to pull out his cell phone. He pressed the pre-programmed button for Giles, and let it drop into the front seat. If he called but said nothing, that was the signal.

As he turned towards his apartment building, he saw a man suddenly standing in the doorway, a Maya demon with thick, gnarled skin the color of swamp grass, wearing a sleek, expensive Prada suit. He uttered something in Aramaic, and Angel suddenly found himself frozen to the spot, unable to move. "You are a persistent thorn in our side, aren't you Angel? We haven't been properly introduced, I'm Grth Mr'the, head of Mystical Defense for Wolfram and Hart. You may not know me, but I know all about you."

"Somehow I doubt that," he growled, barely able to talk. This was a pretty sturdy spell.

The natty demon looked at him with bright violet eyes, sizing him up as if for a prison jumpsuit. "You'd be wrong, I'm afraid. You should see the dossier we have on you; it takes up its own file cabinet. And threatening one of our clients? That's hardly new for you, but it's especially stupid in this case. As it is, you got lucky. Our client heard about it, and he's such a forgiving man, he wants to meet you. How's your schedule?"

He glared at him, not quite believing he was going through with this charade. "Busy."

"Too bad!" Mr'the said cheerfully. "He's ready to meet you right this second. Shall we go?"

It wasn't really a question, and he knew it, which is why he was gloating. So yes, this was it - the plan was working perfectly.

Now he hoped everyone was ready.

12

Logan wasn't sure where he was at first. He was in a dark place, somewhere that light had never reached, and he got up and staggered forward, hoping it was the right direction, figuring it was as good as any. His senses seemed to have abandoned him.

Except now he felt a limit to the darkness, a smoothness, and he traced his hand along it until he found a seam - a door. He opened it, expecting to be temporarily blinded by bright light …

… but it didn't happen. He was just suddenly inside a nice wood paneled office, window open to a bright afternoon sun, A man with pale ginger hair sat behind a desk in a grand leather chair, cleaning his hands with a Handi-Wipe. Standing in front of the desk was Faith, although younger perhaps, her hair slightly wavy and a bit longer than it was now. She was wearing a black leather jacket and matching pants, with a red tank top so tight you could make out the contours of her bra (which was also clearly lace).

He just stood at the side of the room, wondering what they were talking about - the man, who talked with a perpetually amused voice, apparently wanted her to go get something - when Faith noticed him, and blanched; he could actually see the blood draining from her face. And since her lipstick was a bright hard red, a crimson smear like blood on her mouth, it made her look that much more pale. "What the - Logan, you can't be here," she insisted, dark eyes wide in horror. She stomped over to him and grabbed his arm, hard enough that he was sure she'd leave a bruise (well, for a few seconds). She tried to hustle him towards the door, but he held his ground and turned her towards him.

"Why? What's going on?"

She glared at him in open exasperation. "I didn't know you now - then. Whatever! Just g-"

"This is the Mayor, huh?" He looked back at the soft featured man, who seemed to have simply frozen in place behind his desk. "I thought he'd look more evil. He just looks like a minor bureaucrat. They never look as evil as you think they should, do they?"

"Don't do this. I don't want you here. I don't want you to see this!"

Was he actually here? Obviously not in this time or place, but in this … memory? No, dream. Faith was dreaming, and he'd just walked in. How the hell could he do that?

Oh shit, the Bob power again. It allowed him to "astral project" once, didn't it? Maybe he did it again. He was dying the time he did it that first time, right? That made sense, in a strange way. It was like a death spasm on the psychic plane. He puts his hands on her forearms, and stepped closer to her, close enough to feel her warmth. "Faith, I - "

She stepped back and shrugged his hands off. "I can't deal with this now, okay? I mean you know, that's bad enough, but you don't need to be a part of it." She ran a hand through her dark hair, catching strands in the zippers on the sleeve of her coat. "It was hard enough to say it! I can't just -"

He grabbed her and kissed her. It took care of two problems at once, namely it shut her up for a minute, and could point out exactly what he was trying to tell her.

She was surprised enough that she didn't immediately push him away. It was a few seconds before she did that, wiping her forearm across her mouth but miraculously not smearing her lipstick. "Man, could you shave for me sometime? I mean the beard burn is sexy sometimes, but -" she paused suddenly, staring at him in shock. She stepped closer to him and felt his arms, squeezing them as if to make sure all the muscles were in the same place. "Hey, are you actually here?"

He nodded. "I think I can explain -"

"Wow, I thought it was just a Slayer to Slayer deelio," she said, letting him go. "I didn't know that it could work that way with anyone else."

"Huh? I was gonna say I think the Bob power - the powers Bob left me - are responsible for this. Have you had semi-telepathic interludes before?"

"Uh, no, not exactly. Look, if you're doing this, can we get outta here?"

His timing was terrible. It was bad enough that he walked into her dream, but it was a recollection of a bad memory, of something that still shamed and haunted her. She might lose a little in trust him after this, especially since he'd just copped to being responsible for this inadvertent invasion of privacy. Couldn't he sympathize? He had almost nothing but bad memories. "Sure."

He didn't know how to do this, so he just trusted his gut. Bob seemed to have no problem doing anything, so he just assumed that it was all easy - just think of the place he wanted to be, and he'd be there. So he did, and it seemed to work. As far as he could tell, you could over-think Bob's powers. They seemed to function as a feeling, not so much a thought.

Faith was with him, of course, and she looked around in surprise at their new surroundings. It was dark and dank, but the smell of water was overwhelmed by the scent of burnt metal, blood, and chemicals. The only available light was focused on a large Plexiglas tank in the center of the room, in which a man was bound to the bottom of the coffin like container filled with slightly greenish tinged water. Two men in "clean" (HazMat) suits were on either side of the tank, one picking up the largest, most hideously Frankenstein like hypodermic needle from a tray of equally horrific and cruel surgical implements. His heart skipped several beats and started racing, he could taste bile in his mouth he was so terrified to be here again. But he couldn't look away; it wouldn't do any good anyway, as he knew this bit, he knew what happened here.

"What the hell is this place?" Faith gasped.

"This is where I died. It seemed only fair that if I walked in on you and the Mayor that you got to see this." And if anyone on Earth could possibly understand this, it was her.

If the men in the suits looked down at the tank instead of at their monitors, they would have seen a dark cloud of blood in the water. He tore most of the skin off his right hand from the wrist down, degloved it to use the coroner's term, but he had freed one hand from the restraints. He only needed to free one hand to get out.

Faith grabbed his arm and glanced at him, but he was too riveted on the scene - on what he knew was about to happen - to look at her. "You mean ... this is that Weapon X place, right?"

"Right. And I'm about to break loose and kill them all." He swallowed hard, feeling a lump in his throat that could have been vomit, or hate. Both perhaps; he wasn't sure. "I'm gonna tell you a secret, Faith, something I've never told anyone. I know I have this reputation as a tough guy - I go out of my way to cultivate it - but I've been broken so many times I can't fit the pieces back together anymore. It was before this, right before this, that I realized I was a copy of a copy of a copy; I was a shadow of the man who used to exist. I don't know who the real Logan is. I have reason to suspect he was a decent man, flawed perhaps, but basically honorable, trying to fit in with people he knew he couldn't really fit in with. He wanted to do right, but somehow it all led him to here, to this moment in a military torture chamber. And with that realization, that I wasn't really a man, just some random parts slapped together, I gave into it."

The man with the needle bent over the tank. Here it came.

"Gave into what?" she asked, her voiced hushed as if she realized this really was a solemn occasion.

"Madness. See, it was always with me - they erased my memories and then tried to build me back up, but something was always wrong. Maybe it was the contradictory orders, the conflict of what they wanted with what they had to do to get me there, or maybe it was the fact that my mind was fucked to begin with. I had nervous breakdowns before they even started fucking with my head; something in me shattered long before they decided to start doing it as a hobby."

The man in the tank broke through the suffocating chemical soup like a maniac in a horror movie and grabbed the man with the needle around the neck. He was letting out an angry scream, but it was tinged with pain; an animal who had been hurt and didn't know why, didn't understand why it was being tormented yet wanted it to stop. It wasn't a sane noise; it was incoherent and hard to listen to. The man tried to squirm free, tried to jab him with the needle, but he ripped it out of his hand and jammed it in the eye of the second man who was trying to help his co-worker, ramming it through the protective faceplate as if it was made of nothing more than plastic wrap. He stumbled back, grabbing for the needle before the sedatives sent him falling back into a tray of instruments, knocking them down with a loud clatter. The man slid to the floor and started convulsing, as he started dying in horrific spasms - those drugs were calibrated for him, for his buggery healing factor. There was a big enough dose in that needle to kill a dozen normal men.

"It was a choice, Faith, one I made before I got here. I decided to stop trying to hold on to myself, to sanity. It wasn't worth fighting anymore. These people ... they knew me, they knew what they had programmed into me. I could never fight them in a way that they couldn't anticipate. Except this, this last vestige of my real self, the real Logan. The madness that had always dwelled in him, the one thing they couldn't predict, contain, or control. Even telepaths couldn't touch that part of my mind; they didn't want to. They couldn't take it, and they couldn't do anything with it even if they could. And I knew that was my only chance to get free: to lose myself, the self I thought I always was, and give in to this howling madness. I knew I might never come back, but ... but I was in so much despair I didn't care anymore. I didn't care if I never came back. So I let the beast go."

The first man in the HazMat suit had groped blindly for a weapon, and came up with a scalpel he jabbed in his midsection, sticking it into his gut to the point where the blade melded with the handle. This Logan - the one with empty eyes glowing with inchoate rage and a consumptive insanity, the brain behind them no longer tethered to this world or anything remotely like it - hardly even noticed. He simply twisted the man's neck, hard and fast, and it snapped with a gunshot report, seemingly echoing in this dark and dreary space. As the body dropped, he ripped out the scalpel as though picking off a tick, throwing it aside as blood welled in the hole, trickled down his abdomen, and he kicked out and shattered the tank, the green water spewing out over the floor as a loud emergency klaxon began screaming through the base. He stepped out on the concrete floor, naked and dripping chemicals and blood, the wires from the probes and monitor leads trailing from his skin like limp tentacles before he reached around and yanked them free in spurts of blood, ripping more of his own skin off with them and not caring, so far beyond pain it didn't matter anymore. From the look on his face, a mad dog snarl that bared his teeth, only the noise made him more angry

Logan finally turned away, rubbing his eyes so he didn't have to look at that ... thing, the thing that was the honest him, the real him, the only part of the real Logan that still existed. "I really don't remember much beyond this. The thing about being insane is that sometimes the memories don't stick well. I guess that's the one comfort."

She was quiet for a very long time, as the scene looped back to the beginning and started again. It had to, as he had so few memories beyond this. Escaping the complex he vaguely remembered, and waking up in the snow, freezing and hurt and not sure who he was or what had happened to him, but terrified that something was coming for him and aware he couldn't afford to be caught (again). Feeling a strange pain in his hands and being horrified by the knives that seemed to be a part of him, something tied in his muscles and welded to his bones. Aware, even though he couldn't completely place the feeling, that he was a monster, and that he would always be a monster, and that maybe - worst of all - it was his fault. "Why are you telling me this?" she finally asked.

"Because you deserve to know what I really am. It's not ... I'm not ... we all have things we're ashamed of, Faith. But take some comfort in the fact that you're not ashamed of what you really are."

She touched his arm, and he had to suppress the urge to pull away from her. His skin crawled, his gut roiled, and he wasn't sure he should be near her right now. Maybe this wasn't the greatest idea he'd ever had. But that was okay; maybe she wanted nothing to do with him anymore, That would probably be for the best if he was dying; it would make it easier. "Get us out of here," she said, and then turned him towards her and kissed him passionately, almost violently. He actually stumbled, and if she hadn't been holding on to his arms with her Slayer strength, he'd probably have fallen flat on his ass.

He simply imagined they were back at her place, and they were, his back slamming against the kitchen counter as she pressed against him. She broke away from him before they both started to suffocate, and his mind was reeling, as there couldn't have been a more drastic shift in circumstances. "Uh, what brought -"

"Shut up," she said, pulling his shirt up over his head.

Yeah, okay, he could do that.

He still had no idea what brought this on, but he didn't really care. They tore off each others clothes with amazing rapidity and fell into her bed kissing and grasping for each other like they were the last two people on Earth. They were hardly ever sedate, but they made love almost furiously; he was glad they both healed fast, because this might leave them bruised otherwise.

Not that he actually thought about it until afterwards, when they were both laying next to each other on the bed, gasping for breath. Yes, it was definitely sex, but it was also something of a workout. "Okay, now can I ask what brought that on? Not that I'm complaining."

She propped herself up on his chest, looking down into his face, her hair a dark veil concealing them from the rest of the world. "Are you kidding? A macho guy getting all vulnerable and shit? Catnip to the ladies, Logan. Come on, you know that. Also, you trust me; kind of a turn on. I mean, who trusts me? Angel, and … well, I'll get back to you. Not that I blame 'em, but …"

"You can have my back any time."

That made her smile. "I know. Oh, and what you were saying about not being the real Logan? Total bullshit." He took a breath to say something, but she put a finger on his lips, and continued. "Have you ever considered that maybe that's exactly what they want you to think? That the old you's been obliterated, and what's left is some bugfuck nutball? That works pretty well for them, doesn't it? They can still sabotage you even when they don't have you around to play with. And even if they didn't fuck with your head, you still wouldn't be the "original" Logan. How could you be? People are the sum of their experience, right? And you're closer to Angel's age than mine. So all those experiences would make you a different person than you were then, unless you were rock stupid and never learned a damn thing. But don't even try to play that card, you Canadian James Bond motherfucker."

That made him chuckle, like she knew it would. She did have some good points though. "Don't tell me you have a degree in philosophy too."

"Can you _get_ a degree in philosophy?"

"Apparently; I know a guy who got one."

She looked skeptical. "Seriously? So what the hell does he do with that? Teach more philosophy?"

"No, he's a mercenary."

She raised an eyebrow at that. "You're shitting me."

"Nope. His name's Marcus, I'll introduce you someday. I think you'll like him. Be warned, though, he'll probably try and get in your pants." He stroked her back idly, savoring the softness of her skin, the salt taste of her sweat still on his lips.

She nestled her head against his chest, as if listening to his heartbeat, stroking his stomach gently. Was it coincidence, or was she stroking the spot where he got stabbed with the scalpel? It was still mildly arousing, in spite of the connotations. "You know, everybody breaks; everybody has a breaking point. That's not really important. It's the coming back from it that matters." She paused briefly. "Or so Angel told me anyways."

"And you know how full of shit he is," he joked, and they both had a good chuckle at that. "Damn, why couldn't I have met you a couple of years ago?"

She frowned, but her eyes were still bright with mischief. "Uh, I think I was still in my crazy old super villain days myself. Or maybe in prison; I'm not really sure."

"We should probably just run off to Vegas and get hitched."

"Are you kidding me? I tried the settling down thing once - well, no marriage, but living together, which is almost the same thing - and I totally hated it. I mean, I suck at this togetherness crap. I ain't getting married until I'm, I dunno, sixty, when my boobs are sagging down to my knees."

In spite of himself, he laughed, and she laughed too, although she calmed down to a wide, infectious grin pretty quickly. "Well, come on! I might be a Slayer, but I'm not immune to gravity. Hey, you'll be around then, right? You can be my young stud. Okay younger_ looking _stud."

"Can I live in the pool house?"

"Hell yeah. Granny's gonna need some sexual healing once her hip gets replaced." They both cracked up, the mental picture of it just too much to bear with a straight face. As they laughed, they instinctively held on to each other, Faith snuggling into his arms. They were so much alike in so many ways it was genuinely frightening; there's no way this could last. But god, wasn't it fun?

"Why don't you show me your place?" she wondered. "I mean you got one, right?"

"Well, it's Bob's, but he gave it to me."

"So let's see it already."

He thought about it, and just like that they were there, in his cabin in the British Columbian woods. She sat up and looked at the soft cerulean walls, which were only interrupted by a couple of small black metal shelves and a framed Monet print ("Waterloo Bridge, Soleil Voilé" a/k/a "Waterloo Bridge, Hazy Sun") that he was afraid might be the actual painting and not a faithful reproduction. (Knowing Bob, it was possible.) She wrapped the top sheet around herself as she got up, and walked to the window, opening the strangely light blue velvet drapes, revealing the conifer forest just beyond the boundaries of the cabin. Even from here he could see their tops, a tightly grouped collection of ornate, giant green spears reaching for the high blue sky. "Wow, what a view." After a moment she turned to face him, smiling like a kid who knows they're about to do something naughty. "You really are in the middle of fucking nowhere, ain't cha? Do you know how crazy with boredom I'd be if we actually _did_ come here?"

"I'm sure I could keep you busy."

"Yeah, I bet you could, you letch," she teased.

The sunlight was softer here than in Los Angeles, almost languorous, but it made her mussed dark chestnut hair shine, and lit her face as gently as a mythical angel. Even wearing an indigo bed sheet, she made it somehow look sexy, the curve of her hip and the side swell of her breast just barely hinted at beneath the cotton. She gave him a suspicious look, and asked, "What are you smiling at?"

Was he? He hadn't realized. "You're beautiful," he told her honestly.

She shook her head, grimacing in humor. "Now I know you're trying for seconds."

"Don't make a joke of it. You are."

She glanced at him almost sheepishly, her eyes meeting his, and he realized that there was a huge danger of their fling becoming something more. Maybe it was a good thing he was dying, although it was hard to picture drowning in a polluted river because you're trapped under a big rock as ever a good thing.

Suddenly she looked to the side, expression changing to consternation. "What is it?" he wondered, sitting up. He didn't see or hear anything.

"I think someone's wa -"

And just like that she seemed to blink out of existence. He could finish the sentence for her in spite of that: _I think someone's waking me up. _A shame, but he knew this couldn't go on forever anyways, no matter how much it seemed like heaven.

He dry washed his face and wondered if he had to come back to awareness now, or if he never actually would. He didn't know how it worked, especially not as an avatar.

That was when he heard a noise in the living room.

He got off the bed and went out, curious but not really alarmed. After all, this was his mind, right? He knew all the horrors that lurked here, he'd faced each and every one, and while they scared the shit out of him, they hadn't beaten him yet.

But he knew there was something wrong before he padded out into the room, only to see a glow like a fire. But it wasn't a fire. It was Jean, standing in the center of the room, surrounded by a fiery aura of translucent energy that he could feel crisping the hair on his arms. She stared at him with fiery eyes that had a dazed sort of vacancy in them, and asked with great curiosity, "Where have I gone?"

* * *

Ali had lived through several bombings in her life, one earthquake, and a genuine carpet bombing. But this was still the biggest, scariest explosion she'd ever witnessed.

She was trying to figure out if the coast was clear, if she could go back into the canyon without being spotted by the weird guy. And he was weird; this whole set up was weird. All the journalists she'd met were nerdy guys, kind of soft or wiry, usually loaded down with cassette recorders and cameras. Not only did this guy have none, but - and this was by far the most suspicious of all - he'd taken a beating, and hadn't a bruise to show for it. He wasn't even spitting up blood - no fucking way! When the gang stomped you down, you were _stomped_. Weird guy seemed to shake it off like a dog shook off the rain.

And come to think of it, how'd he get untied?

Something was going on here, and she wanted in. If there was money to be made here, she'd find it, even if it got too dangerous and she had to turn it over to Amir. Because really, she didn't want to anger the others.

But then there was a "boom", and the ground shook, and for a second she thought it was another earthquake, but then there was another explosion, and another, smoke vomiting from the canyon as the explosions continued, grew louder and closer together, and she dropped to the ground and covered her head, figuring someone had decided to call an air strike on the canyon. But she never saw any planes, nor saw any payloads deployed; all she saw was the canyon dissolving into smoke and debris, the whole thing collapsing in on itself like an unstable tower block.

Her ears felt popped long after the explosions stopped and new smoke ceased rising from the canyon. It wasn't so much a canyon now as just a jagged rip in the ground with lots of rocky chunks in it. Curiosity got the better of her, and she headed towards the new edge, about twenty meters in from where it used to be, coughing as she breathed in rock dust.

The river was there, now clogged up with debris the size of cars, and she figured the people down river were in for a sudden and terrible flood. But maybe they didn't have to worry about the others anymore - if they were here, they were dead, buried under a ton of rock.

Something weird caught her eye, and she saw a glimpse of pale green near a collection of huge slabs of rock, one that probably used to be a cliff. It was a body floating face down in the river, snagged on the rocks.

Holy shit, it was the weird guy.


	9. Chapter 9

She really didn't know what she was supposed to do. What did you do in situations like this? Okay, probably pull them out of the water, but did the people who made those rules include venturing down into a canyon that had just been blown up by … well, she wasn't sure who blew it up. Could have been the others, could have been someone trying to kill the others. Either way, it was possible that the explosions and general slaughter wasn't done yet. Still, she seemed to be the only thing moving around these parts, at least for now, so maybe she was safe. In a relative sense.

She carefully picked her way over the bigger, more stable chunks of rock, and wondered why she was bothering. He had to be dead - no one could have survived this, not even an other. But there was the possibility that he still had some money on him, and you hated to let that go to waste.

She wasn't squeamish; she didn't know many people who lived through the war that were, not to mention among the street people like her. (Although most people like to call them "gutter trash", which she never thought was fair, as who actually lived in the gutters? No one she knew … ) She'd gone through the pockets of dead people before. She didn't _want_ to, but sometimes the choice was between starving or bothering the dead, and the dead were beyond caring what you did with them.

Pebbles and loose rocks shifted and fell as she climbed down, but she was good at picking out the solid surfaces, and never slipped. She eyed the river carefully, as it was darker than ever, and sloshing like water in a disturbed basin. Every now and again she thought she saw bits of things, but she tried not to focus on them, as honestly she didn't want to know what they could possibly be. Her imagination was bad enough.

She reached him, and very carefully leaned down to grab his arm. The water kept moving, up to her elbow and then down to her wrist, and it was making her scared. She nearly drowned when she was six, swept away by a flash flood, and ever since she'd been afraid of rivers, which seemed especially unpredictable, although she wasn't crazy about oceans either. Lakes and ponds didn't bother her, though; they seemed placid and safe.

The guy was heavy, incredibly heavy, about two tons heavier than he actually appeared. And she thought the guys who said he was heavy were a bunch of wimps. It took all her strength to lift his arm, and that was the best she could do. So she bent his arm back as far as she could, pulling and tugging, hoping the sloshing water would help her, and finally it did - he shifted, and she got him to turn over on his back. How was he floating if he was this heavy? Maybe the rock was helping hold him up, since it looked like part of him was caught on it.

He wasn't breathing, was he? He didn't look like he was breathing, but she honestly wasn't sure the way the water was moving him. He had what looked like jagged pebbles embedded in his face, and there was a big, jagged rip in the skin across his forehead, roughly diagonal, reaching from his hairline to the tip of his left eyebrow. The weird thing, though, was she could see metal underneath his skin since the water had washed the blood away, and after staring at it a moment, she figured it was shrapnel embedded in his skull. Yeah, it was strangely flat, but she knew from experience shrapnel could do weird things - she had a six inch scar down her right leg to prove it. If he took a piece of metal in the head, hard enough that it burrowed under his skin, he was dead for sure. But at least it was a faster death than drowning.

She considered reaching into his pants pockets, but she couldn't search them without leaning far into the water, and she didn't want to do that because it was too dangerous. So all of this was for nothing? She felt vaguely disappointed.

Oh well, she could go back to the Eurasia. Some of the maids felt sorry for her, so she figured she might be able to sneak into his room, see if he had any more cash or equipment with him …

She fell back and shrieked as he coughed.

It was a violent, choking cough, but he didn't open his eyes or appear conscious until after twenty seconds of doing it, and then he sat up, grabbing the rock to keep himself buoyant, leaning back over the river to vomit up water. He said something in English - a short syllable, probably a curse - his voice so raspy it seemed clogged with gravel. He perched precariously on the edge of the largest rock, the water sometimes lapping up to waist level (although he didn't seem concerned that he'd be washed out again, not as far as she could tell), and he sat there, head hanging down, water and blood cascading from him for a full half a minute. Maybe he had brain damage - the fact that he was still drawing breath was a miracle.

He looked around then, and stared at her with annoyance creasing his features. "What the hell are you doing here, kid? I told you to get -"

But she didn't really hear the rest of what he was saying, because she was staring at his forehead. The place where the gash was, the slightly diagonal slash … it was smooth. There was no gash, no scar, no blood. Even the pieces of rock in his face, they were gone, and there was no sign they'd ever been there. Was she going insane? Had she been seeing things?

No, she wasn't; she knew she wasn't. There was only one answer, wasn't there? And it scared her to the point where she was afraid she was going to piss herself, something she had managed not to do even while being carpet bombed. "You're one of them!" She scrambled back hastily, heart pounding so fast and so hard she wondered if kids her age could have heart attacks.

"I'm not one of them," he snapped, clearly lying. "Listen -"

But she wasn't watching where she was going, and the rocks gave way beneath her, sending her falling.

Or almost. She screamed as she started to fall, but it turned into a strange yelp that stuck in her throat, as a wet, firm hand suddenly snatched her wrist and held her up, kept her from plunging deeper into the darkness. He hoisted her up with surprising strength, and pulled her back up to a more stable bit of rock. "I'm different, okay?" he said, letting her go. "But I'm not one of the others. I'm here to stop them."

She rubbed her wrist, not because it hurt (much) but because he had touched it. And some of them were poisonous, weren't they? At least that's what Amir said. "Bullshit! Your kind stick together. Amir told me so."

"Amir's a fucking dirt bag who don't know shit about me," he replied sharply. "If I was one of them, why the hell did I take the beating? I could've killed every single one of his gang and him without breaking a sweat. But I didn't 'cause I'm not out to hurt you people. You've been hurt enough."

She didn't buy it. People who always claimed to tell you a lie for your own good were telling it for _their _own good. But he did have a point, kind of. "Why did you take the beating?"

"'Cause I didn't want to blow my cover."

"As a normal person?"

That made him scowl at her, and she thought he looked a bit like a wet wolf man. "No. I just didn't want 'em to be ready for me."

"Who, Amir?"

"No - the others. Surprise is my main advantage until I can figure out how many people they got and what they can do."

She looked at him suspiciously, and then scanned the rocks, wondering if she could get out of here without his help. She really didn't think so, which was disappointing.

Now she had her answer as to why the weird guy was so weird - he was a freak. Was there enough money in the world to make her feel better about this?

Oh fuck, she was dead.

13

His head continued ringing like a bell for several minutes after climbing out of the river, and he just wanted to sit down and nurse his aching brain, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. He was lucky, as he knew if he was normal he'd be dead from intracranial bleeding (he got hit hard enough to jostle his brain matter inside his skull - and wasn't that always fun?) but it wasn't much comfort as his head kept throbbing, and his healing factor made him feel like he had a raging fever. The kid being here was throwing him off too.

Was Jean actually there in his mind? Or was it his own mental representation of Jean? He knew from Bob memories that the Powers That Be had done _something _with Jean, but he didn't know what. They had presumably removed Camaxtli from her, but beyond that Bob had no clue what else they did to her or with her. Bob honestly didn't know; it was unlikely they'd kill her … but not out of the realm of possibility. It would depend on whether they thought of her as little more than insect or not.

He wished he could have talked to her, but he woke up coughing instead. _"Where have I gone?" _What did that mean? Did that mean she was out there somewhere, but even she didn't know where she was? Did she know that the PTBs had altered her in some way, robbed her of her demi-godhood?

Or was that what he wanted to think? Bob honestly, genuinely feared that Jean was dead, that they had obliterated her along with Camaxtli's energy because they just didn't think about Humans except when they could be used to their advantage. Logan loathed that idea, and understood why Bob wanted nothing to do with them. It wasn't Jean being killed that got to him; it was horrible, but he could live with it better if the PTB's did it because they were angry at her for what she did while Camaxtli, or because it was policy to take out anyone touched by such a destructive god, He wouldn't like it, but he could _understand _it; it would be a reason. To kill her because she was beneath their notice … there were no words for that. He hoped that Jean wasn't just his own subconscious kicking her up, making him remember. He hoped Bob was wrong, and she was still alive … somewhere.

(How often had Bob been wrong?)

The pain and dizziness made him move slowly over the rocks, pretending to just be extra careful, although there was no way for the kid to notice, as she was just terrified of him, and that seemed to keep her busy. He eventually convinced her to climb on to his back and hang on to his neck, giving her a piggyback ride up to solid ground, as she was now shaking too much to be any good on her feet. Besides, he knew he wasn't going to get hurt and he wasn't going to fall, as he had a way to stop himself. The wooziness faded, though, the heat in his face finally starting to subside, and he figured his healing factor had finally taken care of the problem in his brain. If only it could heal everything else so easily.

As soon as they returned to more stable land, Ali got down and kept her distance, still reeking of fear yet not quite ready to run away. Her ignorant racism annoyed the shit out of him, but she was just a kid, and if Amir had been her teacher on the ways of the world, he was probably lucky she wasn't a complete psychopath. He wasn't completely sure who had just tried to kill him - the Organization or Black Fire, but ultimately he figured it didn't matter. Black Fire couldn't have been down in the canyon, of that he was sure. Maybe they were once, but surely they had moved on before the Org got wind of it. So where could they go? The government might be happily looking the other way, but they'd never given them official sanction so as not to potentially piss off any allies who might find out. So where would Black Fire have its base?

"Terrorists," he muttered, and Ali jumped, startled, turning to look at him with deer in the headlight eyes.

"What?"

"Did the mujahadeen have any other bases around here? Or perhaps some of the "freedom fighters" in the civil war?"

She continued to stare at him like he was a ticking time bomb, and it was difficult not to be irritated. He wouldn't hurt her - didn't she get that by now? "Umm … some people say they used to use the old cannery in Masiri, but I dunno."

Cannery? Could be a dead end, but it could also be an excellent cover. "Where in Masiri is it?"

That made her scoff. "It _is_ Masiri. The government bombed it, and the cannery's about the only thing left standing. Just look for the desert with the building in it, and you're there."

That was perfect in many, many ways. "Go back to the hotel, kid, wait for me there. And I mean it this time."

She almost laughed, but couldn't quite manage it. Yeah, she'd have no problem getting away from him now. "You actually gonna pay me?"

"Yeah. I may be a mutant, but I'm good for my word. Now go before I change my mind."

She started off, but paused and looked back at him from a safe distance. "What are you gonna do to 'em?"

He fixed her with a stern gaze. "Do you _really _wanna know?"

She considered that for several seconds, then turned back and continued walking away.

* * *

Maybe Giles had a rather negative attitude about the X-Men and Saddiq, but he couldn't argue with results.

Sid had brought some of his equipment with him, including a tracer that Scott had slipped into his X-Men jacket. Sid was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to know about it, but he pulled it out using a special type of hand held GPS scanner that read the tracer. Yet, in spite of that, Sid had kept the tracer - a little piece of metal about the size and shape of a watermelon seed - in his coat pocket, as he didn't see that it was doing any harm. Now it had come in handy, as he gave it to Angel before he left, and Angel slipped it inside his shirt, just so they were ready for anything. As soon as Giles got the signal from Angel, Sid activated the GPS unit (which he'd also kept with him, for the same reason he'd kept the tracer), and reported, "The tracer just blinked out … no, it was a teleport. He's now in Malibu."

"That's where this bastard lives, right?" Naomi asked from her place on the sofa. She looked tired, and was on her third cup of cappuccino, which seemed to be losing the battle to keep her awake, but this seemed to perk her up a bit.

"According to the information Mordred gave us, yes," Giles replied, in a way that suggested he thought Mordred wasn't the most trustworthy individual on the planet. Of course he wasn't, but what could you do?

"So let's get driving," Bren said, springing up from his desk chair. This plan was just nuts, so he wanted to get it over with. The worst part of a potential execution was waiting to die.

Faith was sacked out in the break room, so he went to wake her up. She looked so peaceful - was she smiling? - he hated to wake her up, but you needed a Slayer in a situation like this. She was vital to the plan.

When calling her name didn't seem to work, he shook her by the shoulder, and when she finally jolted awake he jumped back, as he didn't want her to hit him (accidentally or otherwise). "Damn it," she cursed, sitting up and fixing him with a blurry glare. "Why'd you have to wake me up?"

"We're on."

"Shit. Angel has some timing, doesn't he?" she grumbled, rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

He was nosy by nature, so he was tempted to ask what she was dreaming about, but then he figured it was probably better he didn't know. He could only imagine what could make someone like Faith smile like that: perhaps some form of decapitation.

Once she was ready, they left, piling into Giles' current car, which was a strangely bland blue Chevy Cavalier. Actually, only three of them could fit in the car with Giles - it wasn't a big car - so it was him, Saddiq, and Faith. Naomi couldn't get in the car anyways, not the way she effected electronics, but Rags had hooked her up with a demon car dealer who did custom jobs for "special people" (mostly demons, but he wasn't too picky where his money came from), and she now had her own motorcycle. It looked like it had some kind of weird Kevlar over the engine and gas tank, but that was the non-conductive shielding that protected the most vital parts from her occasional electrical surges. Unknown to everyone but Rags, Bren was trying to get his motorcycle. No, he technically didn't need it, and he didn't need a custom job, but they were so cool. Faith must have thought the same way, because as soon as Naomi roared off, she commented, "I have got to get me one of those."

He and Faith sat in the back while Giles drove, and Sid rode shotgun, keeping an eye on the GPS unit. Sid was either unaware that Giles was uncomfortable sitting next to him, or didn't care; with Sid it actually could have gone either way.

The roads were just starting to fill up with early commuter traffic, so they couldn't move as fast as they wanted to. Bren envied Naomi her motorcycle, because she'd probably beat them there. Not that it mattered. A mutant like her? She could take out security and neutralize his security system without any problems at all. If there were any kind of mystical protections - and it was assumed he'd have them - she was fucked. She would probably wait for them, unless it started to go FUBAR.

He noticed Faith, slouched next to him in the back seat, and she was looking out the window smiling in a rather goofy manner. It was distressingly familiar; he'd seen that look on his face before … when he was dating Matt. That was freaky. "You ready?" he prompted, as he didn't know how to ask _"Are you dating someone?" _in context.

After a moment she glanced at him, giving him the sort of look a jaded veteran always gave a rookie when they were trying not to laugh at them. "I was born ready, Chambers. You?"

"Yeah, I'm good. You just looked … eh … lost in thought."

She shrugged, looking back out the window at the morning commuters speeding past. Just think, all these people were headed towards normal jobs and cubicles, and they were going to fight an immortal demon possessed former actor on the Forbes five hundred list. It was a fucking odd world. "I guess. Just thinkin' about Logan."

Logan! Holy fuck, he was glad he left his coffee back at the office, otherwise he would have spit take all over Giles' upholstery. "Really?" If it was lust he could understand - the man had a body that would make Log Cabin Republicans kick out stained glass windows - but that kind of goofy look only appeared on your face when you were smitten. Not quite in love, but so perilously close you'd be embarrassed if you could actually see yourself. (Oh how he missed that feeling. It may have been embarrassing, but it was so much fun while it lasted … and before the relationship went to total shit.)

"He's kind of sweet, you know? I mean once you get past the whole macho thing and the paranoid thing, and the horndog thing, he's got a surprisingly gentle core."

"Marie's told me something like that, yeah. It's hard to think of him as gentle, though."

"I know. It doesn't seem to fit, does it? But he's like a cactus. If you can get past the thorns, you find a soft interior." She paused, frowned. "That didn't sound right."

"No it didn't. But I think I know what you're getting at … besides his guts being soft and pliable."

She snorted a laugh, shaking her head. "Well they are, but that's beside the point."

"Yeah. But he's got great abs."

"Oh, tell me about it. You could bounce a quarter off 'em. I'm jealous."

They finally got to the part of Malibu where people were rich enough to have big spaces between their houses, wide swaths of private beaches that let you know how rich and powerful they were simply by how big the spaces were. Giles finally found a soft shoulder to pull off on when Sid said they were within a block of the house. Bren thought he could see it, a big beach house that seemed strangely large and imposing. Should a beach house be in any way imposing?

Once they were out, Giles pulled up the hood, as their cover story was a simple and stereotypical one: car problems. But he also put his bag of magical equipment near the engine block, and started pulling things out, while they stood around him as cover.

The sun was coming up, turning the sky the color of blood oranges, while seagulls wheeled in the air, uttering noises not unlike distant screams. It smelled like salt and exhaust out here, the sea scrubbing the smoggy Los Angeles air just enough to make it palatable. He wondered if they were near any movie stars' homes, or if just directors lived out here.

There was a slight noise, one that made Faith and Sid both brace for action (a curious contrast: Faith seemed to tense, hands curling into fists, while Sid looked so relaxed it was like he was only one step away from total collapse, hands open and loose at his side. But they both had the exact same look in their eyes, one that seemed to say _"You really don't want a piece of this, but if you want to try, bring it on"), _but it was Naomi that emerged from between the shadows of someone's bungalow, hands raised just in case. "Just me," she added, in case there were further questions.

"Scoping out the area?" Faith guessed.

She nodded, coming to join their group. "Yeah. It looks like there's a couple guys lounging on the beach, neither Human; I suspect they're the bodyguards. I should be able to take them out no problem."

"Anything else?" Sid wondered.

"I hear a dog, probably a guard dog."

He nodded. "I'll take that." And no one was going to argue with him. The guy who couldn't be bit was more than welcome to take on the throat tearing Rottweiler.

"That's it?" Faith prompted.

Naomi shrugged half-heartedly. "He has signs saying his property is protected by surveillance and one of those security companies, all of which should be a problem for about three seconds. It's nothing without electricity."

Bren grimaced, hating having to piss on her parade. "Uh, some of 'em send emergency signals if the power goes out."

"They ain't sending out a signal if all their circuits are fried."

Okay, that was a valid point.

Giles sprinkled some stinky stuff around the engine block, smeared some runes on his hand, and holding his hand palm up beneath the safety of the car hood, he muttered something in a language Bren didn't recognize, and after about a minute, a tiny ball of light began glowing in his hand, maybe hovering a few centimeters above his skin. It looked like a pearl of luminescence, and was roughly the same size and shape. Giles stared at it like it was a television screen, and after a moment, said, "He's using the wards of Alkazan on his house. Impressive."

Faith glanced at the ball of light, and scowled, not seeing anything either. "Is that good or bad?"

"I'm sure he thinks it's good, but I won't have any problem bringing them down."

"That's a relief." Faith glanced down the street, as the growing sanguineous light cast the large and strangely angular beach house in murky shadow, and asked, "When do we move in?"

"As soon as I see the change," he replied cryptically.

Bren didn't technically know exactly what he meant, but he guessed that whatever it was, it wouldn't be pleasant for Angel.

It was a good thing he was an undead superhero, or this would really suck for him.

14

Angel figured it was a sign of living wrong when you kept waking up bound to things.

This time he woke up on his feet, but his shoulders were nearly dislocated, as he was hanging by his arms, ropes tired around his wrists and secured to some kind of metal bar just a few feet short of the room's vaulted ceiling. Angel tried to yank his hands free, but his wrists were tied up tight enough that the ropes were biting into his skin, and the bar was embedded in the ceiling and seemed perfectly solid. He could neither bend it or bring it down.

He could reach the floor, but just barely, his feet nearly skidding on the slick surface. His coat was gone, his shirt ripped open (why did they always _do_ that?) and the room he was in was strangely empty. There was just a white marble floor, bare walls painted a pale red, no windows. Actually, looking around, he saw fixtures on the wall, lots of bars and metal rings, and he was picking up the faint but undeniable scent of old blood. Human, definitely. Finch's killing floor? Probably. Nice that he thought well in advance and had the architects make one for him - did they ever wonder why he wanted a room with built in restraining devices and a drain in the floor? Well, probably not; probably architects in Holly wood never blinked at anything since Aaron Spelling got a gift wrapping room. If you had enough cash, nothing was too weird.

A door opened, creaking like a cemetery gate, and the soft bulk of Finch filled the doorway opposite him, an anonymous figure wearing white linen pants and a blue patterned Hawaiian shirt. "Ah, Angel. You're awake. So you wanted to kill me, huh?"

"It wasn't personal; I always kill evil perverted fucks. It's kinda my thing now."

Finch clicked his tongue in disapproval, shaking his head wearily. "Name calling; the lowest form of criticism. It's ironic, isn't it? You wanted to kill me, but now - " Finch reached for something, just beyond the doorway, and Angel recognized the shadow of its shape. " - I'm killing you."

And with that, Finch fired the compound crossbow, sending a wooden arrow flying directly towards his heart.


	10. Chapter 10

Angel twisted violently to one side, the extent of what he could do, and took the arrow in the left side of his torso, where it seemed to lodge between his ribs and puncture a useless lung. It hurt like fuck, but it wasn't fatal. "Jesus, don't you bad guys torture anymore?" he snapped, trying to bull through the burning pain in his chest. Wood hurt like a vampire's worst nightmare, no matter where it hit. "At least try and bore me to death. What the fuck is this?"

"Do you really think I'm going to give your friends time to rescue you?" he replied, notching another arrow in the crossbow. "Yes, I know you have some, and I know you're expecting to be rescued. It's not going to happen."

"So why not kill me while I was unconscious? Would've been easier."

"True, but then I couldn't have seen the look on your face."

Angel stared at him, but Finch was still in shadow, so he couldn't see much beyond his silhouette with the bow. But didn't that tell him a lot? Angel snickered, unable to help himself. "What's so funny?" Finch demanded, sounding annoyed.

"You're afraid he'll see me."

There was a startled pause, and he knew he had him. "What the hell are you talking about? It's a bit late for an insanity defense."

"Ays. He isn't here, is he?"

Finch was frozen, and Angel knew he had him. Oh yes, his plan was working perfectly. "You know the details, Angel. He's always with me; we can't be separated."

"But he can sleep, and you made sure he was out before you had your lawyer bud come and get me. If he sees me, he'll realize what a raw deal he got with you. After all, I'm immortal too, but look at me. I actually don't look like a couch potato. Think of how many souls Ays could get if he was my jockey …"

"Shut up," he hissed, firing the crossbow. Even though he was closer now, his hands were shaking so much he actually managed to miss him, the arrow going wide. Yes, he had hit the sore spot.

"Ays! Hey, you ugly son-of-a-bitch, you see what your guy is doing?"

"Shut up!" Finch roared, and wielding the crossbow like a bat, smashed him on the side of the head. Something broke - luckily on the crossbow, not him - but the hit was hard enough that his mind reeled, and he could feel cold blood trickling down his scalp from the rip in his skin. Still, Angel chuckled.

Mainly because it was too late. It was a change in his dominant smell - bad but expensive cologne now being overwhelmed by a smell not unlike baking vinyl, and the slightest glow appeared in Finch's eyes, a type of lambent, foggy whiteness that let him know Ays was awake and ready to play.

"What is this?" Finch said, presumably to himself, in a voice far more deep and otherworldly than his usual tone. Finch leaned in and took a deep whiff of him, which was creepy enough on its own, as Ays said, "Ah, a vampire with a soul. Lovely. I'm hungry."

"Yeah, I bet this fat bastard makes you hungry all the time."

The glowing eyes simply stared at him, while Finch said, "Kill the fucker, would you? I'm bored."

But Ays remained where he was, and from the glow of his eyes, he could see a small smile creeping up his face. It was a deeply unpleasant thing. "You're afraid of him, Eli? Why is that?"

"Because my demon could kick both your asses," Angel shot back, figuring that the fallback position - goading the killer demon - was always a good one. "Eat my soul if you want, but it's your funeral. Angelus isn't going to appreciate finding an arrow in his chest, even if you do get rid of this pesky soul. He also isn't into bondage ... unless, you know, you were a woman in a corset."

Ays chuckled, but it was a noise that put a chill in the base of his spine. It reminded Angel of that movie Faith brought over to watch at his apartment, Ju-On, some Japanese horror film. (Faith liked to watch his flatscreen t.v. - he'd never mentioned the place was willed to Logan but Logan gave it to him, and now since they were involved he was glad he hadn't, as Faith would probably smack him upside his head.) While it was all right for a somewhat unrealistic thing, the filmmaker had given the angry female ghost one of the eeriest inhuman noises he'd ever heard in a film; it was like a wooden door on a rusty hinge swinging open as slow as possible, the creak drawn out into one monotonous bass drone. That was almost exactly what Ays's chuckle sounded like, a demonic click in the base of an inhuman throat. "As if I have any fear of a vampire. You're all parasites."

"And what the hell are you, huh? At least his host body looks better."

"Name calling, are we? How childish." Finch spoke up, or at least wrested control away momentarily. "Would you stop talking him to death and eat him already?"

But Ays ignored him, and ran a finger down his chest, examining his torso like a side of beef. Yeah, he really wasn't digging this part; he'd have preferred another arrow. "So proud of this host body, are we Angelus? It could be mine. Your cruelty is legendary, but mine is far worse."

Finch turned away sharply, and Eli's voice came through, strangled and angry. "It's a trap you stupid shithead! He's planting the idea in your head! He wants you to do it. How suspicious is that! His friends -"

But Ays's voice interrupted, Finch's body straightening up. "Can do nothing to me, idiot. I'm perfection, a true demon, so hold your tongue if you wish to keep it."

"We had a deal," he said in a strangled whisper.

How weird was this to see a man literally arguing with himself? The sad thing was, this wasn't even in the top fifty of the weirdest things Angel had ever seen.

"And I kept my end of the bargain, Eli. But I'm getting bored." Finch turned back to face him, the whiteness of his eyes now glowing like headlights. "And I've just had a grand idea."

His hand tightened reflexively on the broken crossbow, but then the fingers went slack and he dropped it; the last fight between Eli and Ays, and Eli had lost. "Is this a trap, Angelus? How? You can't fight me."

"Oh, I don't know about that. Angelus is pretty protective of his territory." His demon was a nightmare, inside or outside, and the older a vampire was, the stronger and meaner they were; that was just part of the vampire life cycle. But Angel knew that if Ays jumped in him that Angelus couldn't fight him off. He'd try like hell, maybe buy a few seconds, but he would lose, as Ays was right - he was a pure demon, and vampires, no matter cruel, were simply half-breeds. But if anyone could find a weakness in him, it would be Angelus - it was the only damn thing this fucker was good for.

Ays gave him that unpleasant smile again, made that low clicking noise. "This is a horrible plan, Angelus. How can you let your Human ride you like this?"

"He really has no power, not with my soul in the way. Although, he does have a message for you," Angel replied, and quickly reared up, pulling himself up with his hands, and kicked Finch square in the face with both feet.

He fell backwards, sprawling on his ass, as Angel said, "Actually, that was from me. Angelus only said "Eat me," for whatever that's worth." It was both an insult and an invitation, but there was no benefit in pointing that out.

The noise that Angel thought he heard overhead, a faint sort of falling sound, repeated, this time the ceiling of the killing floor falling away in chunks as a figure dropped down on the floor in front of him, between him and Ays. Angel could only see his back, but just from the black leather and Kevlar jacket he was wearing, he knew it was Saddiq. Angel glanced up at the neat Human sized hole in the ceiling, and wondered if he'd dropped down all the way. Sure, he was reasonably indestructible, but that seemed kind of extreme.

Even Ays was stunned by this surprise entrance, which was probably the whole point of it. Saddiq had probably picked up a bit of strategy or two from Logan. "Who the fuck are you?" Ays asked, although it sounded like Finch had come back as well, said it with him.

"Saracen," he replied flatly. "Sorry about your dog." And while Ays hopped right back up to his feet, Saddiq was on him, moving so fast he couldn't be a normal Human. He landed a solid kick in his stomach, making Finch double over, and then he grabbed his left arm and stepped under it, almost a dance move, except when he came out from beneath it he was behind Finch and gave a final wrench, both breaking the arm and popping the shoulder out of the socket. He then stomped down on the back of Finch's leg, just below the knee joint, breaking the calf bone with a loud crack. Just for good measure, he grabbed Finch's head and pulled it back suddenly as he delivered a hard, straight kick to his back. There was a muffled, dull kind of noise, but it sent a shudder of revulsion through Angel. Once you heard a spine snapping, you never forgot the noise, and it never got any easier to take.

Finch went down on his knees as his legs buckled, and Saddiq said robotically, "I have broken your arm, your leg, and your back, and I will break your skull if you persist. Stay down." And he'd done all of this in five seconds, too fast for Ays to react.

Okay, yeah, Angelus was pretty impressed with him. That was scary.

Finch was shaking, his skin flushing and his eyes glowing even more, but it wasn't out of pain; it was out of sheer fury.

Angel didn't have time to warn Saddiq, although it wouldn't have done any good anyways. Finch simply flicked his (good) hand and Saddiq went flying across the room, back to where Angel couldn't see, but it sounded like he hit the wall hard enough to have pieces of it collapse on him. "Arrogant little whelp," Ays roared, getting to his feet as Finch's skin seemed to bubble, and his bones snapping back together with a sound not unlike Rice Krispies in milk. (Okay, that was super freaky.) "You think you can hurt me? I'll swallow your soul, you little bitch."

"You really like picking on kids, don't you?" Angel commented sourly. Well, he did seem to have an affinity for the younger set.

Ays turned his nuclear gaze on him. "Don't think you can spare your little sidekick by distracting me," he said, taking a step forward as his leg popped and shifted back into place, and his shoulder reset itself with an audible "pop". Oh yeah, that was creepy.

But then suddenly he was hit with a bolt of what seemed like lightning, lighting him up from behind before the sheer power of the charge sent him flying off his feet. He landed in a twitching heap just a few feet to the right of where Angel was dangling. "I think that's my job," Naomi pointed out, coming in. There was still enough electricity buzzing around her hands that it lit up the room somewhat. She looked Angel up and down, and grimaced. "Damn. Didn't bring a knife."

He would have shrugged, except to do so would have separated both his shoulders. She glanced up at the hole in the ceiling, and commented, "I knew he was supposed to be the first in, but I had no idea he was going to do that."

"Logan taught me that," Saddiq said, sounding a little dazed. Armor skin or not, the impact had to have given his internal organs quite a jostling. "He told me that whenever possible, attack from above. No one ever expects that."

Angel nodded, as that sounded like classic Logan all right, while Naomi blinked a couple of times, and admitted, "The more I hear about this man, the more scared I get."

"A common reaction," Angel assured her.

Finch shot his arm back and Naomi went flying out of the room. He didn't see where she went, but she collided with something, ending in a dull but hard thud. "Are all your people morons?" Ays snapped, getting back up to his feet. His jacket was still smoking a bit. Saddiq probably tried to go back on the attack, but before he could even enter Angel's line of vision, Ays had sent him flying back into the wall. "They are, aren't they Angelus? Only idiots work for -"

But Saddiq must have made himself a deliberate distraction, as Faith slipped into the room while Ays's back was turned. He must have sensed the Human presence, as he suddenly turned around, but that's when she attacked. She jumped up and grabbed his neck with her feet, twisting in mid-air and using both the momentum and the helpfulness of gravity to send him sailing across the room as she landed on her hands on the floor. Finch landed head first against the side wall, making the shackle restraints rattle. "What is it with bad guys who talk too much?" Faith wondered, as she jumped back up to her feet and pulled out the one adamantium knife they had left after that whole Ananga debacle. She threw the knife, high and horizontal, and as it sliced through his ropes like hot butter, a growling, clicking Ays sent Faith flying up towards the ceiling, where she smashed a new hole through it before he brought her thudding back down to the floor. She was unconscious at the very least; he honestly hoped that was all. Ays must have known she was a Slayer, and wanted her out of the picture as fast as possible.

"I'm invincible - exactly what part of that don't you people understand?" Ays carped as he climbed back up to his feet.

"You're just so annoying, people can't help but wanna kill you," Angel said, ripping the last of the ropes off his hands and vamping out as he lunged for him.

But it was an abortive effort at best, as Finch was back up on his feet, and Angel felt himself rooted to floor as his spotlight gaze turned on him full force. It was like that vise spell the lawyer threw on him, but a thousand times worse; he could feel it breaking the arrow still lodged in his chest. "Let's make this funnier," Ays said, and he knew it was the demon alone because the voice was all gravel. "What's say we kill all your friends together, Angelus?"

He hesitated, Finch breaking through just briefly. "No! You can't leave m -" He made a slight choking noise as Ays reasserted himself, shutting down Finch's weak protests. "You've had your fun, Elias. Now it's time for my fun."

The creaking noise continued, but grew louder and more intense, slowly shifting into something like an insectoid buzz, while Finch's prodigious gut started to swell … only it wasn't just his gut. It was his chest too, his throat puffing out like an overstuffed sausage casing, as Finch opened his mouth to scream and nothing came out but the clicking drone of Ays.

Suddenly Ays seemed to emerge at once, as if blasting out of all of Finch's pores at the same instant. Finch toppled to the floor as Ays remained, and he wasn't impressive. He appeared as nothing so much as red mist, or perhaps smoke, something curling and twining on its own currents of air, living vapor that smelled like burned iron and tasted like sour skin. The crimson cloud took on a sinuous shape and headed straight for him just as a vial of salt water was smashed down on the floor, and Giles began reciting something in Armenian.

Ays curled in the air, reeling as if about to head straight for him, but Giles was also holding what he called a "pallidar", a special type of crystalline formation that Ays would be drawn to - and trapped in, assuming the spell worked to plan. That was why Ays was actually so dangerous; he was a demon in pure spirit form, meaning there was no physical body to hurt or kill. But if they could get him in something corporeal but not permeable to him - the pallidar - he would be trapped.

The living cloud that was Ays was starting to be drawn towards Giles and the vase sized isosceles triangle of sapphire crystal that he held, making a pitiable noise that could barely be heard; it was a long, drawn out hiss of air. Angel felt himself released and stumbled, almost losing his balance, but he managed to stay upright. And even though he knew it would hurt, he braced himself, and ripped the arrow right out. He swallowed back a scream as he tossed the damn thing aside.

Giles was shouting the same Armenian phrase over and over again, as Ays attempted to fight it, but ultimately he couldn't; the thing that was him, the red mist, was pulled into the pallidar like inhaled smoke. Something red began to glow in the heart of the slender blue pyramid, and while Angel's first impulse was to smash the damn thing, he knew that would be counterproductive. Ays still had no body to hurt.

"Faith," he said, turning his attention to her. He dropped to his knees, and instantly smelled blood. He had to brush her hair aside to see it, but her scalp must have been cut badly, as there was blood running down her face, making tendrils of her hair stick over her mouth like a gag. She was very unconscious, and yes, possibly more, although she was still breathing.

"How is she?" Giles asked, coming over. He was still holding the crystal, with glowed fiercely, as if the energy inside it was somehow agitated. It was.

"Hurt. She needs a hospital, now."

He cast a quick glance over her injuries and nodded in agreement. There was a shadow in the archway, but it was only Brendan in his Brachen form, holding a hand to his left temple. Angel could smell the blood on him, as well as see it running down his face in little rivulets. "You know, the next time I get knocked out, someone could do me a favor and drag me t -" he paused as he saw Faith. "Oh shit. Is she gonna be okay?"

"She's a Slayer," Giles told him, which was both a "yes" and no answer at all.

"What about Ays?"

He briefly held up the pallidar, and Bren nodded in understanding, then winced at the pain of the gesture.

There was a funny noise across the room, a sort of breathless panting, and Finch struggled up to his feet, sweat dotting his pallid brow as he waved and nearly fell over a half a dozen times. His eyes were wild, big and completely bloodshot, and he made a high keening noise in his throat before he began to form actual words. "Not like you, not like you! Not weak, I am not weak, I am not mortal, you're the monsters! You don't belong here, this is my house - my house! - it is my blood, we can't have my blood, it's your blood, we need your blood! Yes, yes, all will die, all must die - _I am not like you! _You are cattle and I am a king -"

A shadow loomed behind Finch, and he was too drunk on pain and his own insanity to notice. He didn't even seem aware of the hands grabbing his face from behind until the very last second, a solitary moment before Saddiq twisted sharply, and his neck snapped like so much rotting timber. Finch didn't so much fall to the floor but sag, finally shuffling off the mortal coil that had, in all honesty, run out a very long time ago. He didn't have to tell him to stay down this time.

"Are we done here?" Saddiq asked unemotionally, although there seemed to be a hint of steel in his voice.

Angel looked at Giles, wondering if this was going to be a problem. Ays demons usually left their victims hopelessly insane, and then the aging process caught up with them all at once - he was going to die, and die horribly, but there was a slight chance he could do some real damage before he expired. Angel had planned on killing him, but hadn't told Giles, as he had no idea how he'd react to it. Yes, Finch was a Human monster even without his demon, but he didn't know if that would be enough.

But Giles's expression was flat, his eyes hooded, rendering him almost unreadable. After a tense moment, he replied, "Yes, I believe we are. Go get the car, would you? Drive it as close to the front door as you can. Brendan, go fetch a blanket."

"For Faith?" he asked curiously, as Saddiq walked past him, following orders without question.

"For Angel. If you haven't noticed, it's sunny out there. We need to get him into the car without getting caught by the sun."

"Ah." Bren wandered off, still slightly dazed, but recovering as fast as his Brachen nature would let him.

As soon as they were alone with Faith, Angel shot him a quizzical look. They'd known each other long enough that he didn't need to say it; the question was obvious. Giles met his gaze levelly, and said, "He was going to die anyways. Saddiq saved me the job of killing Finch myself."

And he wasn't lying either. Wow, Giles really _had _gotten hard core in his old age. Wesley probably would have told him it was about time.

Funny how the two Watchers would finally have something in common after all.


	11. Chapter 11

15

Black Fire's idea of torture was a drill press, which seemed both strangely crude and wildly ingenious at the same time. Boyle wondered if they'd shared this with other sadistic bastards, or perhaps picked it up from the Organization or the CIA.

They just chained him down to a cold, hard table and drilled a couple of holes in his arms and shoulders, nothing fatal yet, just enough to cause him lots of pain. They didn't even ask him questions, so he assumed they were doing this for fun.

Eventually someone came in, a guy with a sharply featured face and a shock of reddish-brown hair, his blue eyes sharp and cruel. It was Timebomb; he remembered seeing his photo on the roster. He glanced down at him with disdain, and asked, "Who did you bring in with you?"

Boyle looked up at him blearily, pain making it hard to focus. He had passed out at least once, but not nearly long enough. "Huh?"

He sighed impatiently, his eyes narrowing to slits. "The mutant you brought with you. He recognized Nomad, although Nomad wasn't sure he recognized him. He had strange hair and even stranger sideburns, looked well built but had no obvious visible mutations. Who was it?"

Boyle stared at him, wondering if this was a test of some sort, one he was bound to fail, or perhaps the Organization did send a mutie in without telling them. He scoured his mind to see if any mutant he'd ever seen on the roster matched that vague description, and he recalled the only one who'd ever been mentioned as having sideburns. Oh god.

He couldn't help it; he laughed. It was so funny, and it made a queer kind of sense. Was that the plan? How had they managed it?

Timebomb punched him in a shoulder hole, sending a deep shuddering pain through him, making him see an explosion of red before his eyes as tears ran down his face. "What's so fucking funny?"

"It's Wolverine, you stupid piece of shit. He's not with us anymore, he signed up with some penny ante goody two shoes outfit out of New York, but it doesn't matter. You're so fucking dead." He cackled again, amused at the thought.

He didn't get why Wolverine was considered such a hard target at first. His powers, on paper, were pathetic; that was true of most of the physicals, who had to work at close range and were compromised because of it. But each time the Organization tried to upgrade to a new, better mutant assassin, ultimately they would fall back on Wolverine. Why?

He figured it out eventually. The ones with the more impressive projection and distance powers were often harder to control, or became opies who were a danger to themselves as well as others, or would simply gain too much unwanted attention. (Timebomb, for example - he had a hundred percent kill rate, but he made a huge mess, and no one could excuse an exploding head as "natural" or "subtle".) And Wolverine got his codename for a reason beyond his claws and sense of smell.

Real wolverines were mean, vicious bastards, the most evil little things in the animal kingdom. Supposedly there had been instances where they killed bears, majestic animals so much larger and technically more deadly than themselves. But where bears had the size and the cache, wolverines made up for it by sheer tenacity and savagery. They didn't seem to realize they were outclassed or dwarfed; they fought until they were bloody strips of fur staining the snow. And that explained everything.

Logan was a wolverine who had killed many, many "bears", mutants far more powerful than him, his betters, even though he shouldn't have been in the same weight class as them, and he shouldn't technically have been able to last a minute. He killed them because he didn't quit; you could kill him, and it wouldn't be enough. He would come for you; he would find a way to kill you if it took him months to do it. He was a vicious little freak, truly deserving of his codename, because he wouldn't stop. Powers didn't make the man, and powers wasn't what gave Wolverine the edge; it was something in the man himself, something that couldn't quite be replicated, that made him so damn deadly. That's why the Organization had never been able to successfully replace him, because Wolverine's powers weren't really what made him special.

And the Organization had somehow found a way to get their favorite old rogue mutant hunter on Timebomb's trail. The fucker was completely doomed, and he probably wouldn't even realize it until the claws popped through his chest. That was true comedy.

"Wolverine..?" Timebomb repeated, tasting the name, sure he knew it but not sure how.

The door of the stark, dark room opened - Boyle had a sneaking suspicion it was an actual woodshop - and the teleporter who brought him over came in. He was a tall, dark skinned man who looked unnaturally thin, his clothes hanging off him like his body was a wire frame, and there was an ashen undertone to his skin that pretty much screamed 'junkie'. His cheeks were sunken in, and his eyes seemed a bit dull, like maybe he was in pain. "If it is Wolverine, we're in trouble." Boyle had finally decided his faint accent was a bit more Portuguese than Spanish, but close enough that he could pass for either.

Timebomb turned his annoyed glance on the 'porter instead. "Why? I can't blow him to pieces?"

That made the 'porter frown in thought. "I dunno … maybe, but I dunno if it will have any effect on him. He's an assassin, and from what I've heard, trouble. We may not be ready for him."

"What's his powers?"

The 'porter shrugged, so Timebomb turned his laser intense gaze on him once more. "Come on, grunt, what's his powers?"

Was there any harm in telling him? It wasn't going to help them in the least. "Heightened senses, an amazing healing factor, nine inch adamantium claws."

Timebomb's face distorted like he thought this was a joke he didn't understand. "What? That's _it_?" He scoffed. "That's pathetic. Why's he supposed to be such hot shit? I'll blow his fucking head off and we'll be done."

Boyle laughed once again, tears squeezing from his eyes since simply moving in any fashion made the new holes in his body throb even more. Idiot - didn't he understand that between his metal skeleton and his healing factor, the best Timebomb - who could only affect organic material - could do was blow Wolverine's face off? And how fucking mad would that make Logan? Logan would turn him into sushi, bite size pieces no bigger than glops of coleslaw, and Timebomb would deserve every excruciating minute of it. How he wished he could have lived to see that, but he kind of doubted he had that kind of time. The thought made him laugh even harder - Wolverine would avenge his death. How funny was _that_? He'd never even know.

He felt almost giddy with pain, lightheaded and hot, his whole body thrumming like his nerves had short circuited and were now spitting sparks. It hurt unlike anything he'd ever experienced, but at the same time, he was almost beyond pain. Almost.

Timebomb grabbed his arm, digging his fingers in one of the holes, and the laugh died in his throat, becoming a kind of squeal. It was embarrassing, but he couldn't help it. "What is so fucking funny, baseline?" Timebomb snarled down into his face.

Tears of agony made his vision watery, but he still wanted to laugh, and it came out as a sort of pained hiss, a noise that didn't say great things about his sanity, but he just didn't care anymore. He felt strangely at peace, because he knew what was going to happen. These bears would posture and preen, sure nothing as puny as that could hurt them in the slightest, and the wolverine would come in and gut them all, leaving them dying in pools of their own offal, protesting weakly as they died that he couldn't have done that, because they were so much stronger, better, and more powerful than he was. How could he have killed things as powerful as them? They would understand far too late that sometimes powers just weren't enough. Wolverines didn't fear, nor did they acknowledge the superiority of other beings; they were what they were, and they would fight until they were dead, because retreat was not in the vocabulary of such savage little creatures. And such was the man who had their name as his own. If this motherfucker wasn't pulling open his shoulder wound, he might have felt sorry for him. "You, you stupid fuck," he replied, his voice both raspy and wavering. "You're gonna die. You're all gonna die."

Timebomb's face seemed to cloud with fury, his features pinching in and his face flushing, and Boyle knew he was going to die right now, that he'd use his power on him and his head would explode, but that was okay. It would be a quick death, and he would have absolution and revenge as soon as Wolverine showed up to start tearing down everything they ever built, piece by piece and limb by limb.

Every now and then, the Organization surprised him with the beautiful poetry of their plans.

* * *

The kid had been right about Masiri being essentially a void with a building in it. The area leading up to the former boundaries of the city was a cratered, dusty wasteland that could have been a part of the Moon, or a landing area for one of those "rovers" on Mars. Eventually he came to a kind of dip in the landscape, and in the shallow man made valley, he saw the factory, a long, low slung rectangle of a building made of poured concrete and rusting metal, with a line of tiny, darkened windows at the very top. He saw no vehicles outside, no guards, no sign that anyone was using the place, but that was the point.

But the way the breeze shifted and brought a soft but prominent metallic scent with it, he knew something else - this place was lousy with landmines. Claymores probably, judging from the tiny pockmarks of ball bearing just visible on the far wall of the factory. If he got down on the desert floor, he could smell the mines, but crawling around like a dog all the way to the factory didn't appeal to him. He wondered if there was another way to do this.

Somehow his Bob powers helped him keep a sense of where he was even when he couldn't see. Could he use it to somehow figure out where the landmines were? He didn't know how to access his powers exactly, how to make them work like that, but if Bob's powers worked on instinct, he should be able to figure it out.

He imagined that he was in a dark place, and looking for a source of blue light. He found it, a distant blue glow growing brighter and brighter, until it seemed to fill the room, his mind, and he had to open his eyes to keep from being blinded.

And there it was. He didn't know how, but the places without landmines seemed brighter, the sand a clearer ocher, while the places with landmines seemed to be a bit darker, like pools of oil were hidden just beneath the surface. Well, good - finally Bob had worked for him.

But as he walked down towards the factory, which seemed for all the world like an abandoned husk, a dead corpse left behind in the ruins, Bob's powers were cluing him in to other things. For instance, life buzzed all over this barren place - he could sense the insects in the ground, scurrying over the surface, tenacious bits of existence that carved out a niche in this dead place. And there were many people in the factory, some of them a bit perturbed. Did that mean they knew he was coming? Probably. Did it matter?

Honestly, he didn't think so. He wasn't concerned that he couldn't beat them anymore. He was sure that he could - he had a secret weapon he really hadn't considered before. He had Bob's power. How far could he push it? He didn't think he could just tell people what he wanted them to do and have them do it, he wasn't sure how that worked, but he had a feeling he could do some other things if he really wanted to. It would be a last resort, mainly because he still had no idea how any of this worked, and what he would do if it grew beyond his control.

Once he got to the factory, he decided to eschew going in the rusty front doors. They were locked with a chain and a padlock but nothing more, a lock mainly for show rather than strength, but it seemed like a trap, even though he didn't sense or smell anyone just beyond the door. Still, he quietly used his claws to climb up the side of the factory, and he shinnied across the roof until he could lean over the side and look in a window. They weren't locked - at that height, there was no point - so he pushed it open and looked inside.

The factory was unlit and seemingly barren, with only quiescent hulks of old machinery - run down conveyor belts, ominous shapes of rusting machinery, something like metal udders hanging down over a broken belt that laid on the floor like a fallen railroad tie - and he couldn't begin to guess what this place used to make.

Carefully, he climbed in through the narrow window, just big enough for him to slip through, and crawled down the wall towards the cement floor. He could have jumped down, it wouldn't have hurt him, but he didn't want to make that much noise. The place smelled of recent Human passage - some very familiar - moldy flour, and old rat shit. His Bob powers told him no rats lived here anymore, which was typically a bad sign. Rats would live anywhere, and if you had none, something had killed them off. The only way you could scare them off would be with a very large predator - some form of lion, a rat eating snake, a wolverine (ha!), a raptor - and really that was kind of doubtful. Rats were hard to get rid of unless you did kill them all.

He walked around the factory, his eyes adjusted to the deep darkness, and he followed the trail of scents, trying to figure out where the access to the lower levels were, as there had to be some hidden place where the mujahadeen as well as Black Fire had to operate.

Although he was alone, he got a sudden sense he should move several feet to the right, and after backing up he turned to see that the air seemed excited in a certain area, the particles seemed to be swirling in an unusual pattern, and he realized that that's what a teleport looked like.

It was Nomad, or the guy who looked like Nomad ; really, it didn't matter. He seemed surprised to find himself facing him, he probably meant to pop in behind him, grab him before he could react, and teleport him somewhere, but he was unaware that Logan currently had the ability to sense a teleport in progress. He stared at him in surprise, and he was sure he was going to pop back out and try it again, but he said, "We don't have to do this, Javier."

That made him pause, his hazel eyes widening in surprise. "What did you call me?"

"Javier. That's your name, right? I used to know you. Or the real Nomad, at any rate."

"The real Nomad? I'm the real Nomad."

He shook his head dismissively. "Okay, the other one then. We'd work together now and again. I can't say I knew him well, but he wasn't really a fighter, and certainly not a killer. You know that as well as I do. If we get into something, you don't have a chance. But I really don't wanna kill you. I'm giving you an opportunity to go." He had but vague memories and impressions of Nomad, but he knew that Nomad was mostly just an errand boy, a guy who followed orders and did transporting, but never really got in the thick of things. He wasn't the most moral guy in the world, and there was something sinister in his innate spinelessness, but he wasn't a psychopath. Left to his own devices, he wouldn't kill people or try and take over the world. No, knowing Nomad, he'd just retreat into a world of prescription painkillers. Right now, his sweat reeked of oxycontin.

His look was almost uncomprehending, as if he was speaking a foreign language, but a quick mental check assured him that he was speaking English. "You're saying there was another man named Nomad?"

Oh wow; this was going to be difficult. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and said, "Yes. Apparently the Organization had a secret plan where they collected the genetic material of many mutants, and was able to experimentally create functional clones of them along with hybrids. A lot of them are opies or fatally flawed, but some work out okay."

He shook his head slowly, in obvious disbelief. "That's bullshit. No one can clone -"

"In the real world, yeah, but the Organization has access to stuff, people, and technology that no one else has. You know that as well as I do. Do police have paralyzers? What about the CIA? Mossad? No. What about adamantium? You're not stupid, Nomad. You know the score here - they don't officially exist, and neither does anything that's a part of them. Including us. We're all replaceable cogs in a vast machine."

He was giving him a thousand yard stare now, one that he could feel trying to punch its way through his skull, and the smell of fear made his sweat turn sour. "I am not a clone," he insisted, but there was a tremor in his voice. He didn't want it to be true, but he was afraid it was. Maybe there was something wrong with his memories or something, a flaw that made him suspect he was incorrect from the get go.

"You know what happened to the original Timebomb? He was killed by a sniper with a high powered rifle. He never saw it coming; his head was blown to pieces, just like he used to do to other people. It was set up to look like a terrorist group took him out, but it was actually an inside job. He was cocky and pissing off the brass, making them nervous, so they just took him out. And apparently they decided to "reboot" him, make him better and maybe more controllable this time around. But clearly that didn't work. What did they do, enhance his powers so he could blow up all organic material, not just brains?"

Nomad's jaw worked for a moment, opening and closing slowly, but no noise came out. After another moment, he asked in a hushed voice, "Did I die?"

He nodded, almost sorry to tell him. "The 'ports caused him a lot of pain, which you obviously know. He got addicted to drugs, and the Org encouraged it, because it kept him in line. One night he just o.d.'d; he was found rotting in an opium den in Bangkok. It was investigated, in case it was a murder, but there was never any doubt that it was self-inflicted. The only question remaining was if it was accidental or a suicide. And there was never any way to tell."

He looked devastated, as if something in him was dying, although something like anger sparked in his eyes. He didn't want to believe it … but there was doubt, and how could there not be? The Organization did nothing but lie, even to its most loyal soldiers. Nothing was certain, nothing was correct, and it never felt right, no matter how many times you told yourself it did.

If Nomad had been a leader and not a lifelong follower, he'd have gutted him now. But Nomad had always been pushed around, and much like milk, he took on the flavor of whatever was around him. He was a teleporter who ironically was also a man who never settled on a true identity for himself; he was whoever he decided he should be that day. He was forever rootless and adrift, and Logan couldn't help but wonder if it was really that that ultimately killed him. Drugs were the anchor he didn't otherwise have. Now he just might have a second chance, even though this technically wasn't the same man at all.

And he knew that Nomad was the key to all these Black Fire hits. The drugs in the system, the stuff that made the blood smell funny, was a deliberate mislead. Nomad 'ported in with Timebomb at the last minute, and Timebomb took out the victims; Nomad then got them the hell out of there. So he was an accomplice, an abettor, and yet Logan knew that Nomad was probably wasted to the gills the entire time. He was probably Timebomb's bitch, just like he had been the Organization's bitch, and while he was nearly as responsible for all those deaths as Timebomb, he knew Javier simply didn't have it in him to refuse the order of a more dominant personality. He didn't need to dip into his personnel file to know that Javier must have had one shitty childhood; his parents probably beat the shit out of him every day of his life, until they kicked the will to resist right out of him. He came in broken, saving the Organization oodles of time.

After what seemed like forever, he licked his lips nervously, and whispered, "No, that can't be true …"

"Do you want to die again, Javier?" he asked, with genuine curiosity. "Stay here and I guarantee you will. Leave now, and live the life you never had the first time around. Stop taking orders, and just try and live for yourself, huh?"

His eyes had the glazed look of a shock victim. "He's gonna kill you."

He knew he meant Timebomb. "No he's not."

"Yes he is, that's the plan. You don't have a chance."

"No, he's wrong. I think you know that. Everyone here is going to die, or wish they were dead. You can actually leave; I'm giving you a choice. It's the only one you'll get."

Nomad was looking at him like a crazy person, and yet there was a strange kind of awe there too, as if he was the first person to ever be nice to him. Maybe he was. "You … you should really get out of here. He's -"

"Go through with the plan," he insisted. "Let's do this thing. Take me to Timebomb, let him do what he thinks will kill me. Then you'd better leave, and don't look back." Logan held out his hand, and Nomad actually took a step back, looking at his hand with some anxiety, as if he expected the claws to come out. But he was just giving him something to grab on to for teleport, and after a moment he got that.

"You really wanna do this? You really think you can beat him?"

"He's a dead man walking, Jav. Now finally show some cajones, or die with him."

He said nothing, just glanced down at the floor, and after a few quiet seconds grabbed his wrist and initiated teleport.

With the Bob power in effect, it wasn't the least bit disorienting. It was simply that the molecules parted, time opened up, and dropped them somewhere else. In this case it was a dimly lit room, where the casually good looking, pale Timebomb waited, sitting on the edge of a desk. He'd barely been in the room a millisecond before he felt an unnatural warmth and pressure in his chest, and Logan really wasn't at all surprised when his torso suddenly exploded, splattering his gore all over the walls.

16

The funny thing was, he never lost consciousness.

Logan felt his body fall, and he laid their on the dusty cement floor, watching his blood leak across the floor, wondering why he wasn't unconscious, and why it didn't actually hurt. But he knew, didn't he? He was seeing everything tinged with the faintest trace of neon blue, even his own blood as it trickled down the wall of the bunker like office. Would this have killed him normally? No, he didn't actually think so, which may have been cocky on his part, or it simply may have been experience. How many times had he been blown up? A couple of times, and he lost a lot of blood, a lot of skin, and by all rights should have died each time. But he didn't, because he believed his body was honestly a cruel thing that wanted to taunt him. It wanted to show him that he wouldn't ever be getting off that easy.

Working in concert with his healing factor, turbo charging it, his body was healing in record time, and it didn't even feel uncomfortable. His organs were rebuilding themselves, his chest walls resurrecting themselves and knitting back together over his untouched adamantium ribcage with unprecedented speed, and the loss of blood didn't make him feel the least bit tired or cold. Perhaps this was the pay off of being an avatar.

As he laid on the floor, feigning death, he listened to Timebomb and Nomad.

Timebomb scoffed. "Some killer he was, huh? He was even more pathetic than I imagined. What the hell took you so long?"

Nomad's hesitated before replying. "He told me some things … he claimed we were clones."

"And?"

A startled pause. "What?"

"Yeah, of course we're clones. Shit man, you didn't know?" he snickered nastily. "Good god, mate, are you that much of an idiot? You believed everything the Org fed ya? Didn't cha ever dig in the classified files?"

"No! You knew and you didn't tell me?"

"It wasn't fucking important, was it? The first guys were dipshits who got themselves killed; I wasn't about to make the same mistake. I'm improved anyways."

Did Nomad catch that? He didn't say "we", he said "I". He'd already written Nomad off as a loss; he was just going to use him until he couldn't use him anymore.

Logan already felt like he was totally back together again - definitely a record. Blue fire burned through his veins, and he was ready to jump up to his feet, but he didn't. He wanted Nomad to make his choice first, therefore if he had to kill him, he wouldn't feel bad about it.

After what seemed to be a minute's pause, Nomad said, in a crestfallen voice, "You are improved, but I'm the same old thing, right?"

"Hey, you can already 'port everywhere. What's to improve?"

"It's killing me," he roared, with a depth and breadth of anger he'd never heard from Nomad before. Then again, his dream had just been dashed, his heart broken, and maybe that was the final straw, even for a co-dependant Stockholm Syndrome victim like Javier. "Why didn't they fix that? Why didn't make you make them?"

Timebomb scoffed again, like this was a confusing joke. "Huh? What the fuck did that obsolete waste of space tell you?"

He heard Nomad shift his weight from foot to foot, and he knew he'd made his decision. "He said we were all dead. And he was right." With a small noise that really wasn't a noise at all, Nomad teleported out of the room.

"What?" Timebomb said in annoyance to the now empty air. Logan heard him get off the edge of his desk and walk past him to the door. He heard him open it, it creaked slightly, and Timebomb shouted out, " Mel? Nomad made an unscheduled 'port - track him down. Tell me where the fuck he's gone. And get someone in here to get this piece of shit out of my office."

But Logan had risen to his feet quietly, and took two steps towards Timebomb's turned back. He could see nothing beyond him but a narrow, dimly lit hallway, but just from the smell alone, he knew there was probably about ten other people in this base. They had outsmarted everyone, a mere dozen mutants? It didn't speak well for any government or the Organization, but then again, he had no respect for any of those institutions. They were lumbering beasts that were helpless against a swift moving predatory outfit like this.

Which is why Canadian Intelligence had finally come back to him. He wasn't. It was a shame Timebomb would barely have time to realize that.

"Copy or not, Keogh," he said, "you're still a prick."

He stiffened and spun quickly on his heels, but not fast enough. Logan popped his claws as he lashed out, and by the time Timebomb's eyes had met his own, his head was already sailing across the room.


	12. Chapter 12

17

It turned out they had a minor league telepath, and it really sucked to be them.

Logan didn't see them until later. He just felt the sudden and violent intrusion in his mind while he was punching and slashing his way through the remaining members of Black Fire that decided attacking him was a wiser decision than running (they were idiots). But as they barged in, the blue energy seemed to rear up in his mind, and push back, totally independent of him.

He wasn't sure if he'd heard the scream in his mind alone, or out loud. It was hard to tell, and it didn't matter. But after the surge, a song fragment kicked up in his mind, something from Bob's memory: _"I don't have a god complex, you have a simple god." _That sounded like Bob's motto; he bet he had it on his business cards.

He wasn't even sure what the powers were of half his opponents, because he felt high on all the energy coursing through his body, almost possessed, hardly of this world. He wasn't sure if concentrating on finding the power or if the fact that Timebomb blew his chest up was responsible for unleashing it, but he was pretty sure he wouldn't be able to put the genie back in the bottle. He felt like he was barely hanging on to himself as the power carried him along on a wave of something like bliss, and he was content to let it do the fighting for him. He could see how easy it was for Jean to get lost within Camaxtli; the power was intoxicating, the world's most powerful drug.

Upon leaving the complex, he came across a man on the floor twitching, blood leaking out his ears to form a deep puddle in which his head rested. The telepath? Most likely. Shouldn't have tried to mindfuck an active avatar - that was just asking to get a brain enema.

Once he was back upstairs, he kicked open the front doors of the factory, shattering the lock, and walked safely out of the minefield, vaguely aware that at least one had gone off, leaving a huge crater in the ground. Animal? Or had someone fled and not been careful enough? Maybe he should have checked it out, but honestly he didn't care.

He walked back to what passed for civilization, feeling like no time had passed at all. He started feeling everyone around him, every living thing, and he wasn't sure how to block it out. On the outskirts of Rasiva, as the city grew large, the feelings became almost unbearable. How did he manage this? How did he block it out? It wasn't painful; right now it was just annoying. But it was increasing, and he knew it was a matter of time.

He noticed a very small, modest building with peeling paint and some minor scorching on its far side - not unusual for the buildings around here - but it had a peaked roof, and in a little niche in the outside wall, he saw a small cement Buddha, sitting cross-legged and looking serene, in spite of some minor blast damage. Had to be a Buddhist temple, no matter how small and pathetic it was; probably not a huge call for it Asrahar, where the Hindus, Muslims, and Christians preferred slugging it out between themselves. But he realized this could be his salvation.

He walked in, and found himself alone, at least for now. The interior was small and low lit, using hurricane lamps instead of just plain old candles, which was just smart considering how erratic the electricity was, and how fanatics of many faiths had a penchant for firebombing, and you hated to just give them an easy way to light Molotov cocktails.

The walls and floor were poured concrete, the air still stinging with the smoky odor of incense, and there was a narrow aisle created by about a half dozen folding chairs on either side of the room. The aisle ended at a small altar, where there was nothing much beyond a small statue of a standing Buddha flanked by two unlit candles, with a tiny stick sticking out of a small ceramic square (an incense holder) near by. Probably weren't a hell of a lot of Buddhists in Rasiva - it was hard to search for enlightenment when you were getting randomly shelled.

There was a threadbare strip of red carpeting before the altar, it could have been a bathmat, but he knelt down on it, almost collapsing, and held his head between his hands. He felt a bit distant from all others now, the pressure had eased a bit, but damn it, there was a spider living up in the corner of the room, and a mouse was in the back room, and outside there were birds in the scraggly stand of trees….

"Goddamn it goddamn it goddamn it," he repeated as a kind of mantra, trying to will emptiness into his mind. It wasn't working, it was hard to meditate when your mind was starting to overload, so he decided to do another visualization thing. He visualized the blue light as filling the room, and then began to shrink it, a ball of imploding light, growing smaller and smaller. But while he was visualizing it, he didn't feel like it was actually getting better. His skin prickled with the feeling of a thousand needles, actually just the feelings of other people, but it was a physical thing that seemed to be eroding him from the outside in.

He visualized trapping the power in a metal box, but he could feel it wasn't working, the light was bursting through the seams, and he could feel the heat of it on his face -

- and suddenly he was looking over the water at the Sydney Opera House, the smell of saline burning his nostrils as a warm breeze caressed his skin. Huh?

Looking around, he found himself sitting at a table on a large balcony overlooking Sydney Harbor, and on the other end of the balcony, standing in from of a barbecue grill, was Bob. "Gettin' a bit much for ya, huh?" he said casually, putting brightly colored slices of … well, something on the grill. He heard a resounding sizzle in response. He caught it on the breeze, smelled like vegetables and … fish? Really? He was grilling fish?

Logan scratched his head, and finally asked, "What's going on?"

Bob retreated inside briefly - his sliding glass door was open - and after a moment came back out carrying a large can of beer. He seemed to be wearing khaki shorts and a blue tank top beneath a red barbecue apron that had on it, in white letters _"No it's not a spatula, I'm just happy to see you". _Beneath it was the illustration of a comically large spatula.

As he gave him the can of beer, Logan said, "You make those up, don't you?"

Bob looked down at his apron and shrugged. "I used to, but I don't really have to anymore. The world's finally catching up with me. It's a beautiful feeling."

"I would have said scary, but whatever. Look, what's going on? Is this some kind of failsafe?"

He went back to the grill and picked up a pair of tongs, which he used to flip some stuff over. He really couldn't see what was on it, but Logan figured he was better off that way. "In a way, yeah. Humans aren't really meant to take on god power, it's just too much. I knew you could take it physically, but I knew mentally it was bound to start drivin' you bonkers. Sorry about that, mate. There really wasn't much I could do about it."

"You can't feel that stuff all the time."

"No, I don't. I've learned how to block it out, much like you've learned to block out men's rooms and loud televisions. You live with something long enough, you find a way to get used to it."

He cracked open the beer and took a swig. It felt cold, and he could actually taste it. He couldn't fault Bob for his control of mindscapes; he did 'em better than telepaths, but then again, he should.

A very large albatross suddenly landed on the balcony's rail, and folded in its large winds, turning its head to fix him with a skeptical, ink black eye. "You took your time," Bob said, and produced a plate with what looked like a fish head on it. He held it out to the small dog sized seabird, and said, "Now be nice. No picking on smaller birds."

The albatross picked the fish head up in its beak, and quickly took flight, its wings kicking up an impressive breeze as it rose into the bright blue sky. Bob just turned away and set the now empty plate on a small side table, turning his attention back to the grill. He was now brushing sauce on something, like he hadn't just been talking to a bird. "Uh, what's with that Doctor Doolittle shit? The last time I had your power, swans seemed to like me."

Bob rolled his shoulders nonchalantly, attending to his food. "Animals know I'm not Human or demon. They know I won't hurt them, and they're pretty cool with that."

"And they listen when you call them up?"

Bob looked at him with that big, smart ass grin, the one that seemed to say that the world was a colossal joke that only he got. "I can always be understood by anything above a single celled organism. That's the good part of being a Power."

"I thought being un-killable was also a benefit, but you managed to fuck that up."

That made him chuckle, although he turned away to grab some clean plates. "Technically I ain't dead, though. I'm comin' back soon - you'll see. Hell, you know the day you don't wake up with the power anymore."

"I'll be lookin' forward to it. Hey, are you grilling fish?"

"Certainly am. It's grilled halibut with my special mystery sauce. And no, that's not a double entendre."

Logan shook his head, taking another swig of his beer. "And suddenly I'm not hungry."

Bob continued to laugh softly, loading up a plate. "Oh come on, have a sense of humor."

"I do, but you grossed me out."

He came over and put down a plate in front of him, still giving him that smart ass grin. There was the thick slice of halibut coated with an amber colored sauce speckled with bits that could have been pepper, but smelled like more, and grilled chunks of red pepper, potatoes, and leeks, as well as slices of tomatoes and pineapple. It did smell good, and he realized he was hungry, but that could be Bob's doing. Oh hell, this was all Bob's doing anyways, wasn't it?

He picked up his fork and dug in, surprised at how good it tasted, but belatedly aware that on a mindscape, everything would be perfect. Bob took off his apron, balling it up and tossing it aside, as he sat down across from him, with his own plate and can of beer. "I really gotta invite you over for a real barbie once I get back. It's not nearly as good as my trifles, but almost. Oh, you haven't had any of them yet, have ya?"

He raised an eyebrow at that. "Trifle of the gods?"

"Ha. Yeah, something like that. The secret's triple whipped cream. Oh, and manna."

"Of course." They ate in silence for a moment, and then Logan asked, "What's happening to me?"

"Right this second? This is a built in default mechanism. The power's returning to dormancy, although you can activate it again if you want to. But you'll probably end up at some point back here with me."

"Yer tryin' to scare me straight, is that it?"

That made him smile. "Well, sure, look at it that way and just break my bloody heart. Where are you?"

"Real world? Buddhist temple."

"Oh, good choice. They'll probably think you're meditating." He paused to take a swig of his beer, and then added, "I've always liked Buddhists, you know. They seem to have the right end of the stick. No creator gods, just kindness towards your fellow man, inner peace, tolerance, et cetera. When did you become a Buddhist?"

He shrugged, using his fork to cut into the grilled pineapple slice. "I'm not sure I ever was one. I think I musta wanted to be at some point, 'cause I seem to know some shit about it, and I thought of myself as a failed Buddhist. Jeeze, with all that non-violence and belief in karma, I wonder why I failed." He rolled his eyes at the thought. Sometimes he could be a real idiot. "Although you know, if karma actually does exist, it explains my life completely."

"Now come on, that's not fair. I have a theory on why you tried it - want to hear it?" He actually didn't wait for him to say yes or no, but he wouldn't; he was Bob, after all. "Something was really starting to get to you. We know you were in a World War or two, right? Maybe some of the things you had to do were gettin' to you, maybe you were having nightmares, couldn't sleep, you know the deal. You must have had some experience with a Buddhist temple before - a monk was nice to you, you were in one and loved the architecture or the silence, something like that - so when you decided you had to do something or go nuts, you went there. It must have helped you regain some peace of mind, or you wouldn't still have a fondness for them."

He shrugged, then reluctantly nodded. It did make more sense than anything. He just wasn't a religious kind of guy (which made the fact that he was an avatar for a god pretty fucked up). "I musta been really screwed up if I couldn't figure out that the religion that didn't believe in killing things wouldn't work for me."

"Don't be like that. If you were the unrepentant killer you like to paint yourself as, I wouldn't be hanging out with you. Also, you'd never have tried to find a way to salve your conscience."

He stared at him. "Need I remind you you're a weapons dealer in L.A.? I'm pretty sure you hang with killers all the time. Not to mention the fact that gods seem to be the biggest heartless killers of all."

"Oh sure, nitpick," he replied, then gave him a half-smile, the corner of his mouth quirking up as he chewed on a piece of red pepper.

"By the way, you couldn't mention you're the god Kama? Is Bob really that much better a name?"

It was his turn to shake his head and roll his eyes. "Kama is not my name, it's just what some people call me; I have a whole bunch of different names. Oh, and I never _made_ that guy sleep with his daughter. Total bullshit, as well as eww."

Was that somehow involved with the Kama myth? Now he was curious, but he knew that Bob probably wouldn't talk about it. "So what other names do you go by?"

"If I told you that, I'd have to kill you."

"Come on, man, one name. You know too fucking much about me already, at least reciprocate."

He huffed a sigh through his nose, chewed a bite of his fish, and after mulling it over, said, "Awha."

Logan sat forward, not sure he heard him correctly. Was he choking? "What?"

"Awha, the Maori storm god. Got saddled with that a long time ago."

He was almost positive he was joking, but he was so deadpan it was hard to say. "How the fuck do you go from Hindu sex god to Maori storm god?"

"Now hold on - I wasn't a "sex god". Kama was all about the desire thing, love -"

"Sex."

"Stop being such a man. There's a lot more to it than that and you know it. And how I ended up getting called Awha, well that's a long and boring story. Kama's just kinda complicated …"

Logan shook his head, smirking at the thought of Bob appearing both Indian and Maori. Funny thing was, he could see it in both cases - it would be a minor alteration of skin, hair, and eye color - and he would still look fabulous. It wasn't fair, but hey, that was one of the perks of being a god.

"Don't think I forgot the topic you were trying to steer me off of," Bob said, pointing a fork full of fish at him. "Yasha called you a samurai for a reason. Think about it, without the self-pity."

"What the hell do you mean the self-pity?" he exclaimed crossly, but he didn't really get an answer, as he woke up with his head down on the floor. He was still in a seated position, so as he sat up and looked around, he figured if anyone had seen him, they might have thought he was confusing Buddha with Mecca. But there was no one else here, or at least not in the main room of the temple, and while he could hear the birds singing outside, he could no longer feel them, which was a relief. Still, he missed the feeling of floating inside his own skin, riding a smooth wave of electric bliss.

But the real funny thing was he thought he could still taste beer and pineapple.

About a quarter of a mile from the temple, he waved down a taxi and got a lift into Rasiva. The driver kept looking at him funny in his rearview mirror, and he wasn't sure why until he realized his clothes had dried on him a bit funny, and they also smelled of the river (not good), and there were a few blood splatters on him, although he supposed he could pass them off as mud. (Or, judging by how he smelled, something else.)

Once he got to the hotel he went straight up to his room, ignoring the startled looks of the staff in the lobby, and took a long, hot shower, washing off all the evidence.

He tried not to think of anything as he cleaned off, threw away his torn, smelly, and otherwise ruined clothes before putting on some clean one and packing his shit up. There wasn't much packing that needed doing, as he'd hardly unpacked. He then went downstairs and got his case out of the hotel's safe, the one with the sat phone in it.

When he punched in the code, he had no idea who would pick up on the other end of the world (if it was there they were answering - technically, they could be next door), but the male voice that answered sounded kind of like Lafayette. "Alpha channel."

That's what he was supposed to say. It was all prepared; there was only one way to really do it. "Beta responds," he said blandly. "Requesting immediate extraction."

"Already?" Lafayette replied, breaking the robotic mood. But he quickly got back on script. "Request received."

Logan hung up the phone. It was unlikely that anyone would intercept a sat phone transmission, but it was always better safe than sorry. He returned the phone to the case and the safe, and gave the guy at the front desk the name of the person who would pick up the case for him. It was, of course, someone who worked for military intelligence (a contradiction in terms) who would retrieve it.

He settled his knapsack on his shoulder and headed outside, into a warm and disturbingly muggy day. The air was so thick with the scent of exhaust, unwashed bodies, and vendors cooking food at open kiosks that had just mysteriously appeared (and would mysteriously disappear by nightfall) that he could barely separate out a single scent. But maybe that was okay, given the propensities for unpleasant smells.

He saw Ali approach him sheepishly, nervously, holding out a wadded bundle of leather. "Here's your coat back."

He waved it off. "Keep it." He saved enough cash out for the taxi ride to the airport, and handed her the rest of the cash, a fairly impressive wad of bills. She looked surprised and wary over the bills, but reached out quickly to snatch it away, like the whole thing was a booby trap.

"So, uh … what about the others?"

"They're not gonna be a problem anymore."

She tucked the money in her pocket, nodding and swallowing hard, her eyes not meeting his. "Good. Umm … I didn't tell anybody about … you know. You."

He shrugged. "Doesn't matter if you did or didn't now. But thanks." He started to turn away, but something nagged at him, and he knew what it was. Damn it! He could leave this kid here, scrounging a meager existence; he _could_. He shouldn't feel guilty - he just gave her what was probably a year's salary in this country. Still …

A man brushed past him on the sidewalk, and suddenly his attention was pulled away, mostly because the man reeked of plastique, fertilizer, petrol, and flop sweat. He turned sharply, and snapped, "Hey!"

The guy kept on walking, but Logan darted after him, pretty sure the guy was going to bomb something if he hadn't bombed something already. Before he reached him, which was more difficult in the crowd, the man turned and aimed a gun at him. His eyes were wide and his hand was shaking; he was so scared he looked like he was about to plotz. "Stay away from me," he hissed, trying to sound tough, and basically failing.

The funny thing was, few in the crowd noticed his weapon or cared much. There had been too much violence in everyday life; people were just inured to it.

Logan just glared at him, scoffing in disbelief. "You wanna shoot me? Shoot me! C'mon, it'll be funny."

The people were parting around them now, avoiding them, and Logan took a step forward as the man - a boy really, maybe about nineteen, in anonymous pale khaki pants and a loose similarly colored tunic - took a step back. He didn't understand why Logan wasn't scared, why the showing of the gun didn't make him back off.

Logan took advantage of that confusion, closing the gap between them quickly, ripping the gun out of the kid's hand at the same time he slammed a flattened palm into his face, shattering his nose. With a little more pressure, he could have shoved the bone up into his sinus cavities and killed him, but dead guys rarely gave you any answers.

The kid reeled, and Logan shoved him up against the wall, pinning him with a forearm to the throat. He let the gun press into the boy's midsection, an implicit threat. "Where's the bomb?" he spat into his face. He wouldn't be this nervous if it had gone off yet.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Ali cried, sounding as mortified as a teenager whose mother just announced her chronic acne problem to her latest crush. "What bomb?"

The kid was continuing to stare at him in wide eyed confusion, like he just didn't get him at all. "There's no bomb," he said, so obviously lying he didn't even try and hide it.

Logan backhanded him across the face, clipping him on the jaw with the butt of his own gun. "Wrong answer. Where's the fucking bomb?"

"Why do you think he has a bomb?" Ali asked, puzzled. "Can you … are you a mind reader or something?"

The boy squirmed, no matter how hard Logan pressed on his throat, and he could feel his pulse in his neck, rapidly climbing upward. "You have to let me go," he insisted, not even caring that Logan was threatening him with nothing short of death.

He knew why he had to let him go - the bomb was about to go off. Shit! He didn't even have time to question him. "Get off the street!" he shouted to the crowd, looking up and down the block. "There's a bomb! Get outta here!"

He got a lot of puzzled, startled glances, some of them betraying a great deal of annoyance. They were wondering why some stupid white man was shouting about a bomb, he could see it in their expressions. They thought he was mad, or a paranoid racist, or both. Even if he told them he could smell it on this man, strong and fresh, they probably wouldn't believe him.

It didn't matter.

It was a car bomb, and it went off with a flash and a roar that sounded just like the explosion in the canyon, only more compressed. He dropped the boy and grabbed Ali, pushing her against the wall as he crouched down and covered her with his body, hoping to take the brunt of the damage.

The car was parked down the block from them, but close enough that the shockwave felt like a brutal hit, and he felt hot debris pepper his back, but none were too sharp or too big. They were minor debris, fragments rather than shrapnel. It was possible Ali screamed, but he didn't know, as the sound of the explosion temporarily deafened him, as it must have everyone on this street. But his hearing was returning with a white noise hum, and he heard that debris was still falling to earth, as was glass from windows. Looking up, he saw that nearly all the buildings around them had lost their windows, the glass all but disintegrated with the sudden, tremendous force. It wasn't like they were even thickly paned around here; no one could afford it. What was left of the car frame burned, along with several of the cars parked near it, and the air was rapidly darkening with acrid smoke.

He sat back on his haunches and turned Ali around. "Are you okay?"

She looked at him dazedly, as if she couldn't hear him yet, but she did read his lips, and nodded numbly. She was scared, but she was not new to this in the least. Rasiva got a car bombing every two weeks or so, as rival religions or gangs or both used the crudest and deadliest weapon they could cobble together. It didn't even make the international news anymore, unless it was a slow day for the BBC world service.

He jumped back to his feet, and noted with some grim satisfaction that the initial shockwave had knocked the bomber off his feet. He was up now, though, blood still sluicing from his ruined nose, and Logan grabbed him before he could make a run for it. "What the fuck was this for?" he shouted into his face, just in case he couldn't completely hear yet either.

There was a slightly glazed look in his eyes, like maybe he was in a bit of shock himself. "God is great," he replied blandly, as if by rote.

"Oh fuck you," Logan exclaimed, snapping a right uppercut that caught him just under the jaw, and knocked him clean off his feet before he hit the pavement, as well as knocking him unconscious before his head bounced on the cracked asphalt. "I know gods, and they're all fucking assholes."

He turned and looked at the destruction, the smoke making his eyes water. None of the buildings were on fire or had collapsed, which was good, but all the food kiosks looked as if they had vaporized, and there was a huge crater in the street that had also eaten up part of the sidewalk. It was maybe five feet deep, about nine feet across.

He stepped out on the street, wondering if there was anyone left to help. He saw lots of body parts, but few whole ones, and the smell of burning metal, gas, and flesh seemed to stab into his brain like knitting needles. But he thought he saw movement beneath a twisted car door (roughly fifteen feet from its car), and went to check it out.

"What are you doing?" Ali shouted at him, sounding both scolding and on the verge of hysteria. "Sometimes there's a second bomb! We need to get out of here!"

"You go! These fuckers can't kill me," he shouted without looking back. There was someone under the warped car door, an older man, still alive but clearly in shock. He also reeked strongly of blood, and Logan was sure he was pretty seriously injured.

He ripped the car door off him, and was about to ask where he was hurt when he saw for himself. His right leg below the knee was severed, and laying parallel to the rest of his body. Blood was spurting from the stump of his leg, and it had already formed a sizable puddle.

If there was the possibility of a second bomb, he had to get him out of the street. "This might hurt," he told him, crouching down. "I'm sorry." Logan slipped his hands under his arms and started to pull him towards the sidewalk on the other side of the street, lifting him up as much as he dared (he could technically lift him all the way up, but then the blood would spew out his leg even faster).

"I can't feel my legs," the man said, his voice reflecting the cool neutrality of total shock. "Is there something wrong with my legs?"

"You'll be all right," he told him, which wasn't an answer at all. He propped the man up against a relatively undamaged building, far from any other parked cars, and with the least amount of shattered glass he could find. He needed to staunch the blood flow, and he knew a tourniquet was his best bet, so he ripped the sleeve off his shirt, and used it for that, tying it tightly around his leg just above the knee.

"Now my leg hurts," the man complained, his complexion a frightening chalky white, his eyes far away.

"You're gonna be okay," he assured him. Actually, if he could feel the pressure of the tourniquet, that was good. It meant he hadn't suffered any spinal damage. Now, if those fucking ambulances would get here and get him to a hospital, he might _actually_ be okay after a transfusion.

He sensed someone behind him, and turned to see Ali standing there, tears streaking her dirty face, and holding up a jagged piece of metal, roughly triangular, about three and a half inches long. "You had this in your back," she told him. "It fell out." He knew the tears were from the smoke, but she had a kind of shocky look in her eyes as well.

He wanted to shrug, but he got the sense she required something else from him. But he honestly didn't know what. "I didn't even feel it. Couldn't have hit anything major."

She dropped the piece of shrapnel, which seemed to ring as it hit the street, and finally he heard sirens in the distance, growing rapidly louder. "I don't wanna live here anymore," she said almost breathlessly, sounding strangely defeated.

He wished he could blame her, but he didn't, not one bit. He didn't know how she had stood it for this long. "You don't have to," he promised.

He didn't know how he'd explain it to Canadian Intelligence, but at this rate, he didn't give a fuck. He did them a favor - they owed him at least one.

But he was going to be sure to let them know they owed him much, much more.


	13. Chapter 13

18

It took some convincing to get the guys picking him up to let Ali on the plane, but when he started to get pissed off they conceded quickly, as apparently they didn't want to get in a fight with him. What, had his reputation proceeded him? They still seemed annoyed about the unexpected passenger, but they weren't going to take it up with him.

The plane looked like a rough, small cargo plane, but on the inside, once you got past the cargo area, it was actually a somewhat austere private jet. It had seats that a person could actually sit in without getting jostled within an inch of your life, which was a relief.

Once they were in the air, he got Ali to tell him her real name. She denied being actually a girl at first, but once she began to believe he knew she was all along, she reluctantly admitted her name was actually Jalila Hassani. He told her that was a pretty name and she looked away, nervous and embarrassed, but it was. He could also see how she got Ali out of it.

He was exhausted, so he figured he could take a time out, but he fell asleep hard and fast, and while he was afraid he'd have lots of nightmares - being back with an intelligence agency was bound to do that - his sleep was deep and dreamless. Perhaps that was a gift from Bob.

He roused briefly when they landed for refueling, and he noticed that Ali had switched seats. She had been sitting across from him, but now she was sitting in the seat beside him, sleeping herself, her head resting part way on his arm since she was small enough to curl up in her seat like a cat. She must have trusted him now, but then again, being desperate and having your life saved a couple of times had a tendency to break down those barriers.

He slept for most of the flight back to Toronto, and he figured that was for the best, since he wouldn't be able to have a beer until they hit the ground. Once they landed, it was a gray and drizzly Canadian day, and as he disembarked he was met by Lafayette and some of his people, although they hung back. He saw the frowns and raised eyebrows when Ali got off the plane, and Lafayette asked, "Was there a reason for this?"

He met his gaze sternly. "She helped me find their base, and I wasn't leaving her in that hellhole. You gotta problem with that?"

He gave him a tight little smile, one that was torn between being offended at his audacity, and amused by his chutzpah. "No, not at all. It's just unusual for an operative to bring someone back from an assignment when it's not a rescue mission or an arrest."

"I'm not the usual operative."

His smile grew broader. "You're telling me." He almost seemed to think that was funny, but he dared not laugh. Which was a good thing for him, because if he had, Logan was roughly sure he'd have decked him.

* * *

They managed to ride back to the headquarters in relative style, as they picked them up in a needlessly large sports utility vehicle with leather seats and more room than was really necessary. This hulk had to get five miles to the gallon.

It turned out they'd heard about the car bombing in Rasiva, the Freedom League (one of the many terrorist groups within Asrahar) took credit for it, but it seems the terrorist they had in custody complained of being "attacked" by a white guy. Lafayette gave him an accusing look, and all he could do was shrug. Still, Lafayette seemed to think that was more funny than aggravating, so he figured he wouldn't get in trouble for it.

He got Jalila situated first, as that's what he told him he wanted to do, and she ended up at a safe house with a rather surprised part-time operative who spoke her language. The operative, a woman named Sheila, seemed to understand his reasons for pulling her out of Asrahar though, and didn't think it would be a problem getting the courts to grant Ali protected asylum status, especially with Intelligence pushing it through.

Before his debriefing, he slipped out to make a call, and rang up Faith. She wasn't home, so he ended up getting her machine. He'd just wanted to hear her voice, so he was left wondering what the hell he was going to say. "Uh, hey, I'm back," he finally said, marveling at his own sheer articulate brilliance. After rolling his eyes at himself, he went on. "In Canada at least. I should be back in Los Angeles by tonight at the earliest, or sometime tomorrow at the latest. I'll let you know if I can." He paused, wondering if he should say more. Then he blurted out, "I've missed you," and felt instantly mortified. He hung up the phone, figuring that was a good enough "goodbye". Okay, yeah, he did miss her, but it still seemed like a lame ass thing to say.

He quickly forgot about it in the debriefing, where he left out a couple of things he felt they didn't need to know or would be impossible to explain: letting Nomad go, and Bob's god power helping him clear out the Black Fire base. They seemed genuinely surprised when he said they were mostly clones of dead Organization operatives, and named them to the best of his ability. "No one can clone," Lafayette said, but there was a hint of doubt in his voice.

"The Organization can. You ask 'em, they'll deny it, but they deny being evil fucks too."

Lafayette and the guy with him - some brass named Hartinger - seemed equal parts impressed and terrified as he told them everything else, from the canyon bombing to Timebomb blowing up part of his chest (he said part because it was easier to believe he'd heal from that). And because he was feeling generous, he mentioned his failed attempt to stop the car bomber. Hartinger, a round faced guy with hair the color of shoe leather and the sort of build that made him look like an overgrown toddler (he looked about thirty five, but Logan guessed he was more like forty five), must not have known about all of his abilities, because he stared at him in shock. "You _smelled_ explosive residue on him?"

"Yeah, he reeked. He might as well have had a "I'm a bomb making limp dick" sign attached to his chest."

He stared at him like he was crazy. Which was fine; if he thought he was crazy, he'd leave him alone.

Finally they got as tired of him repeating stuff over and over as he already had, and the briefing was over. But while Hartinger left, Logan hung around, shutting the door after him. Lafayette remained where he was, standing behind his desk, although a certain wariness entered his eyes. "Was there something else, Logan?"

"Uh huh. I kept my part of the bargain. How's yours?"

He sighed wearily, sitting back down in his posh chair. "Unofficially, the bombings have all been blamed on Chechen separatists who wants to make the West more aware of their cause."

Logan leaned back against the door, working out the angle on that decision. "Right. Makes the Russians happy, and since they will never allow Americans access to their Chechen prisoners, the crimes will remain forever unofficially unsolved."

"Just so."

"That sucks for the Chechens."

"But it's the perfect story. Mutants will not be pilloried for it. And Westerners know so little about the Chechens and their cause that this will disappear quickly."

He sighed, unable to argue with him on any point. He was right - it was a tidy answer that would raise few questions, mainly because answers would remain forever elusive, and since the Chechens had done little to endear themselves to the international community, absolutely no one would defend them or raise objections on their behalf. He moved on to his next bit of business. "Fine. I want the girl taken care of. She's one of those Rasiva orphans, so it's gonna take her a while to adjust to not hording food and picking pockets, but I don't want her tossed in the juvenile justice system or in the foster care system, all right? If you can't get her set up like that, call this number." He went to his desk, picked up a pen and a post-it note, and scribbled out the number for Xavier's. "Just ask for the Professor, and tell 'im she's my responsibility. He'll work something out."

He looked at the note with some curiosity. "Professor? As in Xavier?"

"You do your homework. Good for you." He turned and walked back towards the door. Lafayette must have figured out he was leaving, because he said quickly, "You did excellent work, Logan. Your country and your species owes you a debt."

He turned to look at him askance, and considered giving him the finger, but decided answering his tacit request was good enough. "No, I'm not coming back. I said I'd do this one thing, and I'm done. I'm out." He opened the door, and wasn't surprised to see Hartinger loitering nervously in the hall, holding his laptop case like it was abdominal shield. When he opened the door, he jumped a bit, and his pale brown eyes scudded over his face before quickly looking back down at the floor. Hartinger was still unsettled by him? Good.

"It doesn't have to end like this," Lafayette went on as he continued down the hall. Lafayette was back on his feet again, as though that gave him some extra measure of sincerity. "The door is always open. If you'd like to come back, we'll take you on at a moment's notice. Intelligence could use a man like you again."

Logan waited to respond until he was inside the elevator and he could turn to face him from inside the lift. "I'm sure they could. But I'm done bein' used. Thanks all the same." The doors slid shut on Hartinger's uncomprehending expression, and Lafayette's more emotionless, flat one, which still betrayed a hint of disappointment.

Hey, they were in Intelligence. They should be used to disappointments by now.

* * *

As soon as the elevator descended, Hartinger came back into his office, and closed the door, looking slightly stunned. "That was really _the_ Alex Logan? He looked like biker trash."

Lafayette sat back down, relaxing in his chair. It wasn't easy to relax around Logan. "That was the thing that made Logan so invaluable in undercover missions. He looked like the last man you had to worry about being a spy. He seemed low rent and anonymous, lost among the scum, and he could fit in quite well. It was a talent."

Hartinger put his laptop bag on one of the chairs before his desk. "Do you really think anything he told us was true? The canyon blowing up around him, Timebomb taking out a chunk of his chest ..?"

"Satellites confirmed the canyon collapsed at the time Logan said it did, and I can see him surviving such an event. The same is true of Timebomb, although I'm surprised he had the sense not to go for his head, as he would have done even less of an injury to Logan than he did. Adamantium lined skull and all."

He turned his chair towards the window as Hartinger took a seat and settled in. Hartinger was too much the soul of a bureaucrat, and was usually as entertaining as watching a cactus grow. He looked out on downtown Toronto, looking atmospherically grey, like they were now becoming part of a film noir. "This didn't work out the way you planned it, did it?" Hartinger asked quietly.

"Actually it did; I assumed this would be his initial reaction. Even when his facilities seemed to be intact, he had an air of defiance about him." He steepled his fingers under his chin, and wondered if Logan was one of the small figures he saw crossing the courtyard below. He didn't think so, his gait was pretty noticeable; he didn't walk more than he partially stalked, going to full when he was on alert or on the hunt.

"So you think he'll be back?"

He smirked at his own reflection in the window, glad Hartinger couldn't see him from where he was sitting. He might wonder what he was hiding, and try and find out. "Of course he'll be back. He'll have to be."

19

All it took was one phone call, and he was there in one and a half beers, just as the Leafs game went into its second intermission.

He'd called Rags's cell phone, and told him if he wanted to pop back to Toronto, he was waiting in a bar named Mulligan's, and he'd buy him a Long Island ice tea, which he knew he owed him. Otherwise, he'd be flying back tomorrow.

Logan knew Rags wouldn't pass up a free drink, no matter how far he had to teleport, although he grumbled when he showed up, aware that this was all a set up so he could get a quick and easy transport back to Los Angeles. Still, Rags had clearly gone for it, so how much could he complain?

As it was, he had to buy him two Long Island ice teas before they could go, and it was about time, as the Leafs were starting to suck.

It was jarring to go from drizzly Toronto to bright and hellishly hot L.A., but he'd been expecting it. He wasn't sure if Faith would be at her place or at work, but he had no place else to go, so he headed off to her place.

He wasn't sure he felt too good about all that had happened either, but he didn't know what he could do about it right this second. He could check up on Ali, he really wasn't really worried about her. Was it Asrahar that was bugging him? Perhaps. That, and the nagging question: were Black Fire _really_ at odds with the Organization? They could have been deep black ops, and the whole thing of them going after them merely a show, so it'd all look good. The Canadian government was hardly the type to go put a boot in the ass of the Organization … but a person in power, a person with a grudge against the Organization, could have set it all in motion. Now that that remote possibility had taken root in his mind, he couldn't quite let it go.

Still, when he knocked on Faith's door, he tried to banish the thought from his head. But it didn't work, not until he heard the chain lock undone, and she opened the door, looking out at him in surprise. She was dressed casually, in baggy black and red surfer shorts and a loose orange tank top, her messy hair held back - sort of - with a clip. He still thought she looked great. "Hey, I just got your message like five minutes ago! You're quick."

"I'll pretend that's a compli - holy shit, are those stitches?" As he came in, he took her face in his hands, and smoothed back some of her hair, to see the small, dark line of stitches snaking out from beneath her hairline in a kind of crescent shape, reaching down almost an inch on her forehead. The skin was shiny and taut, as if newly healed, although some of the skin along her hairline looked reddish purple, freshly bruised. "What the hell happened? Are you all right?"

She rolled her eyes, grabbing his wrists and taking his hands away. "I'm fine. I'm a Slayer, we get banged up a lot. That's just part of the deal."

He gazed at her skeptically. "Maybe so, but what the hell happened?"

She shrugged, clearly trying to dismiss it. "I just hit the ceiling - literally. But I gotta hard head, and you shoulda seen the guy afterwards."

"Dead?"

"As Bobby Brown's singing career. So don't worry, he paid for it."

"That wasn't exactly what I was worried about."

She smiled lazily, slipping her arms around him, pressing her body up against his, and gave him a gentle kiss. She was trying to distract him, and it was working really well. "You know what's really funny? I missed you too."

He grimaced, aware she could be making fun of him, but surprisingly he didn't think so. "Oh yeah? How much?"

She uttered a small laugh, and slid her hands lower, down to his waist. "Wait 'til the Tylenol codeine kicks in, and you'll find out."

That actually didn't sound all that fun, at least for her. He slid his hands down her back and held her tight, enjoying her warmth in the over air conditioned apartment. She seemed to sag against him for a moment, as if tired (and if she got the shit kicked out of her yesterday, she would be, Slayer or not), then straightened up and looked him in the eye. "So, how'd your thing go?"

He looked her straight in the eyes, and said, "It was no big deal." And the funny thing was, he didn't even feel like he was lying.

* * *

The End

(For now, of course - happy new year, everyone.)


End file.
